Fledgling
by J.R. Godwin
Summary: "The only way for immortals to understand the fear of death is to experience it through the mortals we love." - Jareth
1. Prologue

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the makers of "Labyrinth". There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_From small beginnings come great things._

-American proverb

* * *

0.

The only way for immortals to understand the fear of death is to experience it through the mortals we love. That is why, when I finally find her battered and frozen on the outer rim of the Fiery Forest, something parasitic throttles my heart as if seeking to rip it straight from my ribs. I believe this sensation is what the humans call terror.

My kingdom, strange as it is on a regular basis, becomes an alien landscape in wintertime. The tundra freezes, the trees crack, the animals hide. Even the sun fades, leeching all colour from the Earth.

That is how I manage to find her at all. The snow landscape stretches to the horizon, white and pure, yet … ah, there. Half-hidden beneath the emaciated trees, ebony and crimson stand out amongst all that white like an open wound, and the bottom drops out of my soul._ My Sarah._

I don't remember walking to her. Somehow I'm already at her side and I don't want to look, but I must, I must. The black feathers haven't fully melted back into the flesh on her face and hands – an amateur's folly. One arm is obviously broken, and a gash in the back of her coat has painted the snow red.

Despite the injuries and the botched transformation, she's beautiful; a half-frozen Icarus.

I'm shaking so badly that I can hardly remove my gloves – it's not the cold, my kind aren't affected by temperature as humans are – but finally the gloves are off and I'm feeling the pale column of her throat where it kisses the underside of her jaw. I know exactly where the pulse should be, having licked and teased it often enough when we make love.

When I feel the spark of life still beating there, the monster in my chest relaxes its stranglehold on my heart, just a little. Maybe I would cry, if I held with that nonsense, but I don't.

You don't make it long as the Goblin King if you don't have keen awareness of your surroundings, so I blame the giddy delirium for distracting me. I'm actually startled when Sarah moves beneath my hands and thickly murmurs, "Jareth?"

"Oh, my love." A broken sigh, a hint of reproach and not a little anger – some of it at her, most of it at myself. _I have failed to protect what is mine._

She shudders, finally cracking her eyes open against the harsh wind. "It's cold."

"Yes."

"Are you mad?"

"You might have told me," I say, and finally the anger bursts the dam, and I am shaking for a different reason altogether. "Though I suppose it wouldn't have changed anything."

"No," she murmurs, "it wouldn't. Jareth … Jareth, I flew." Sarah smiles, showing blood. I have kissed that darling mouth, and it has woken me in the mornings with its lovely lilting singing, and now it's filled with blood. My mind can't process the disconnect. "I flew!"

I finally look up. Tree branches overhead cant violently downward, as if a missile blew through them. I don't understand how my precious Sarah is still alive. They burn so quickly, humans, like candle flames. One second alight, the next a puff of smoke, and forgotten.

I was born of fire, billions of years ago in the shadow of a distant sun. I can move the stars because I'm the one who shaped them.

But no matter how powerful my hold on magick and time, nothing can stop death. It is the way of things. Life is change; death, the ultimate transformation. All the same, I'm left with a fierce desire to protect this little flame in my life, shield it against the slightest wind lest it be blown out. It will be blown out soon enough, I know, and then I will be here, cold and alone again.

I suddenly want to rage at her. _How could you do this? If you died, do you have any idea where it would leave me? Stupid, selfish girl!_ If she wasn't already grievously injured, I would shake her.

But instead I wordlessly reach under my cloak and unbuckle some straps, and my armor begins to fall off into the snow: first the chest guard, then the spaulders and vambraces, and finally the greaves. I can travel faster without them, and teleportation is a bad idea with mortal injuries. So rather than yell, I only tell her in a coaxing tone one reserves for kittens, children and the invalid: "Shhhhh, I'm taking you home."

Despite my gentleness, she cries out when I pick her up, and I realize I'm going to have to set that bone, a prospect that frightens me because it means putting her through more pain. "It's alright, Jareth," she says soothingly, surprising me. "It's … it was worth it. My God, I got to fly! I actually did it this time!"

_This time._ There will be more times, I'm sure. "What bird?"

"That's the weird part. It didn't itch this time when I changed, I just let my form go and I … it … I became a raven. A raven! I got off the ground okay but that wind-" She coughs, and bless the gods, there's no blood, which means no punctured lungs. "-the wind started up and I couldn't fight it."

"Never fight the wind," I whisper, smoothing frozen hair from her eyes, then tucking her into the fold of my cloak. "You ride it, like a wave. You have to trust it, and let your body go, similar to when you transform."

She smirks. "Giving me tips now?"

I growl. "If you're going to act the fool, Precious, at least grant me the honour of ensuring you don't get yourself killed."

In response, she only smiles indulgently and tucks her head into the crook of my neck. The heat of her body folding into mine is almost painful in the pleasure it brings, like the bittersweet relief brought by sex.

The worst part is, I can't prohibit her from anything. I hold no power over her. If anything, I'm the one who set this chain of events in motion the day I fell in love with that odd, lonely child playing dress-up in the park, the day I gave her some of my powers. Our fate was sealed the night she defeated me with those damn words.

Startled, I glance back at the shattered branches overhead, at the blood-soaked ground, then at the woman in my arms who is, amazingly, still alive. _My kingdom as great_ …

If a mortal can share the power of a god, at what point does she shed her mortality? A candle flame is no longer a candle flame when it's swallowed up by a sun.

I hope. I wish. Gods can be born of flesh just as much as fire. It's happened before, though not often.

If she won't obey me (and I know she never will), I'll simply have to protect her better until I can ascertain what, exactly, she is becoming. Human lives are only supposed to be a hundred years at best. It won't take long to figure out what's really going on.

In the meantime, my little raven will continue to push the boundaries of physics, and apparently my sanity. Very fitting, given that ravens are curious birds and sworn enemies of owls.

My castle is not far, but the snow drifts are deep and my precious cargo can't be jostled. I tuck her firmly against my chest, hiding her from the wind, trying to avoid hitting her broken arm. She's already asleep, half-dead from exhaustion. I'll set that arm when we're home, and bandage that wound, and draw her a bath. Ever the villain, ever the slave.

* * *

To be continued


	2. The Champion's Tale

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the makers of "Labyrinth". There's no money being made off of this.

Author's note: This started as a one-shot vignette, but people asked me to expand on it. Wishes granted!

* * *

_My shadow's shedding skin and_

_I've been picking scabs again._

_I'm down digging through_

_My old muscles looking for a clue._

-Tool

* * *

_I heard a definition once: happiness is health and a short memory! I wish I'd invented it, because it is very true._

-Audrey Hepburn

* * *

1.

Among all the horror stories that filter out of Japan after the earthquake rips that country apart, one report actually makes me smile.

A man named Hideaki Akaiwa, living in the port city of Ishinomaki in the northern prefecture of Miyagi, was at work when the earthquake hit. It was an 8.9 on the Richter scale, one of the strongest in recorded history. A colleague of mine – a graduate student from Morioka – said her office shook for an astounding three minutes. Japanese people are trained from elementary school on how to deal with earthquakes. They're used to living on a fault line, so when the Japanese get freaked out by a quake, you know it's bad.

But back to Mr. Akaiwa. Incredibly, the worst was not the earthquake but the tsunami that followed. It buried Ishinomaki in minutes, transforming the city (population:160,000) into a lake. 10,000 people were immediately listed missing, among them Akaiwa's wife and mother.

Most people would give up at this point, but not Akaiwa, whose response was to strap on scuba equipment and dive _**into the tsunami **_to find his family. He swam through the submerged city until he found his house, where his wife was trapped on the upper floors and submerged up to her neck. He not only got her out alive but returned to the raging waters to find his mom. All survived.

The last news item I ever manage to find on Akaiwa reports that, days after the disaster, he is still leading rescue missions for survivors. When people can't (or won't) continue the search, Akaiwa gets his scuba gear and forges ahead on his own.

Some Australian newspaper has a photo of Akaiwa in a sweatshirt and army pants, the cuffs sealed with Duct tape. He looks like a hero, I think.

* * *

Full disclosure: the following story is completely true, except it's not.

Every school has the scapegoat, the kid that everyone picks on even if there's nothing wrong with him or her. Michael Jacobi was ours. By 4th grade, he'd gotten beat up so many times that you just sort of expected it, the same way you expected Oregon Trail Tuesdays.

This was before schools start taking bullying seriously. Back then, it was like, _What did he do to deserve it?_ Or, _It's just a part of childhood._ Or, _It'll toughen him up. You don't want him to be a pussy, do you?_ That's the adults talking, by the way. When even the grown-ups act like you deserve to be terrorized, you know the world's out to get you.

I saved Mike once from a group of kids who'd jumped him after band practice. Terry Arnoldi had Mike dangling against a locker. I didn't think about the consequences, just plowed Terry from behind. We all got detention for fighting, but I saved Mike. We became sort-of friends after that, which made middle school a little less frightening. It was easier, having an ally.

Actually, that whole last paragraph is complete bullshit. Here's the truth: I didn't bully Mike, but I didn't protect him. I think I was too scared of getting hurt, myself. I'm the weird girl who claimed to see fairies (though I stopped talking about that by 2nd grade, once I realized how unacceptable it was to see things). My social credit was already non-existent.

There was one time in 6th grade when Brett Lawrence broke Mike's nose. It was during gym class, and the adults said it was an accident, only it wasn't. Anybody who saw it happen knew it wasn't. I should have told someone. Mom was drinking by that time and working on a new movie, but Dad was around, and he would have believed me if I told him.

I didn't.

Mike's family moved to Florida the summer of 7th grade. A month later, he and his older brother John died in a car accident. A lady driving in the opposite direction, her Buick jumped the meridian and steamrolled them. Both boys died on the scene. Nothing the paramedics could do.

I cried when I read that. People deserve a fighting chance. It's only right. Unfortunately the world's not a fair place; Mike never had a fighting chance anywhere. Neither did his parents, I guess, because they lost both children in one day. Mr. Jacobi was a big name executive for a big name company – Sony or Virgin or something. After his boys died, he retired early, and he and his wife left Florida. I don't know where they went. I've scoured all news sources but never turned up anything.

For years, I sometimes pretended that I _**had**_ helped Mike when he most needed it. It sounds so stupid, so self-serving, I'm embarrassed to write about it here, but it's the truth. I pretended all sorts of stories where I stopped Mike's tormentors and we became friends.

During my freshman year of college, we were discussing the bullying epidemic in my Social Psych class, and I was halfway through my story about the time I jumped Terry Arnoldi when I suddenly froze, horrified, in front of a class of 40 people ... because I'd just remembered that I was lying. I'd relied so long on the stories that they'd somehow taken center stage in my brain as the truth. But I couldn't come clean to my class and look like an idiot and an asshole who lets kids get beat up, so I finished the lie and prayed no one would ever ask me about it again. Nobody ever did, so I suffered in grateful silence.

When I read about Hideaki Akaiwa, my 1st thought is: _This guy is a total badass_. My 2nd thought is: _I'm so sorry he wasn't around when Michael Jacobi needed help. This guy would have helped him. _

* * *

People sometimes ask: _Sarah, why study clinical psychology?_ There are so many answers to that. The only one I have the time and patience to delve into today is this: the mind is fascinating. I'm not sure why astronauts want to spend all their time floating around up there when we have an endless universe right inside our own heads waiting to be explored – I would even say, _**desperately**_ waiting to be explored.

I mean, what causes someone to recreate their world, to make it more palatable? What happened to Mike Jacobi was awful, but I have to accept what I did and move on. Daydreaming about the what-ifs doesn't serve anyone. Mike's still dead, I doubt his bullies even remember his name, and I'm a grown-up now with a life of my own.

I want to understand the lies we tell ourselves and others. I have so many weird memories from childhood. I've had them for years, but frankly, after that humiliating gaffe in Social Psych, I began questioning everything I thought I knew, picking apart the tangled threads in an attempt to find the truth.

For example, the fairies thing: I know I had an overactive imagination in 1st grade, but still ... I remember seeing fairies. I think I'm remembering a lot of movies and they've somehow gotten enmeshed with my real memories.

Michael Jacobi: Already explained. I made up some fantasies to make me feel better about my inaction and cowardice.

The worst memory I have from childhood is one that I'm pretty sure happened, because it's so awful that I can't imagine the reason why I'd make it up. It was in 7th grade, the day after Halloween and Mom came home.

* * *

She'd been someplace called Majorca, working on a plum role the media said Meryl was regretting having passed up. The tabloids showed photos from red carpet events where Mom and Meryl looked like they were giving each other the side-eye, followed by anonymous commentary from "close friends" who said there were a lot of hurt feelings and cat fights going on backstage.

Mom thought the whole thing was hilarious. She said there were no fights, that Meryl had never been in the running for the movie at all. In fact, Meryl hadn't said a word to her in twenty years – she still hated Mom for stealing a boyfriend when they were just girls studying drama at Yale. It had nothing to do with a stupid role, Mom insisted, as if that made their enmity any better.

(Mom had such an expressive face that even when she told you something despicable, you couldn't help but be entranced. She had a gorgeous, mocking mouth that people said put Julia Roberts' to shame, and when she wore red lipstick, she looked like a nightclub singer in a 1940's gangster film.)

Anyway, whenever Mom came home from a movie, she always spent a few days doing what she called "decompressing". This meant sitting around in her robe drinking, reading scripts, and fielding calls from people in New York and Los Angeles. Sometimes strangers would filter through the house – adults I didn't know who wore designer clothes and talked on cell phones. I thought this was neat because I wasn't allowed a phone yet. Mom was all for it but Dad put his foot down and said I was too young.

That day, somebody let off a stink bomb in the gym so school got cancelled, and Cindy Myers' mother dropped me off at home. Mom was rehearsing her lines for a Broadway play she was doing in the spring. One of her actor friends was helping her, reading as the romantic lead. Jeremy was one of those chiseled gentlemen who, even at 12-years old, I was already wishing would look at me a certain way but I knew never would. I wasn't a head-turner like Mom was.

Reading lines shouldn't have been strange, but there was something about the way they jumped when I walked into the kitchen. Mom quickly removed her hand from Jeremy's arm, even though they were obviously just rehearsing. Something thick lay heavy in the air, something that didn't belong there.

I said nothing, just grabbed a peach from the fridge and went to do my homework, but I felt nauseous and I didn't know why.

Mom left us four months later, the same week she won her Oscar. The papers made a big stink out of it, calling her a bad mother (which she was) and a bad wife (which she was). A year later, the same papers had forgotten about her infidelity, and they published photos of her in a bikini on a yacht in the Keys. Jeremy was at the wheel.

I began hiding all the newspapers when they arrived and blamed it on the delivery boy. I would have gotten away with it, but Dad eventually found out what I was doing and made me stop. He said he appreciated the thought, but despite my subterfuge, he'd already seen the papers and he was alright. I didn't believe the last bit, but I didn't question him.

* * *

There remains a gaping hole in my life, a mystery I have never been able to solve. I keep circling back to it, the same way you can't stop tonguing a painful sore in your mouth. All paths return to the Labyrinth, as if every neural circuit in my brain is dead set on dragging me back no matter how much I try to focus elsewhere.

I can be doing laundry, buying eggs, jogging in the park, it doesn't matter, something will set my memory off. A small child moves in a way too reminiscent of a goblin. A TV ad sounds too much like something the dwarf said. The color of the sunlight outside in early fall, when the heat dies and the leaves turn: it's the same shade as the Goblin King's hair, thin as spider silk. Forgetting is futile. I feel like Sisyphus rolling his rock; no matter how hard I try redirecting my mind, I'm always returned to the beginning.

Insane, I know. I should write children's books. They'd be bestsellers. But the memories are so real that I question my health.

Guilt. Repressed guilt from my jealousy over Toby, and for mistreating Karen when she first arrived. But I can't imagine hating Toby so much that I'd wish him away to a monster. Right now Toby is in school and trying desperately to woo this girl named Katie Deng. He talks his head off about her to me, the little goober is so in love and trying not to show it. He has Karen's blond hair and Dad's toothy smile. If anyone ever hurt Toby, I would kill them.

I can't fathom a life without my brother. The idea of putting him in danger is ludicrous. And of course, it's only fitting I'd craft some elaborate story about rescuing Toby to make myself the hero again, just like I did with Mike Jacobi.

It's actually pretty sick. God, I hope I'm not becoming my mother.

I remember only snippets of the Labyrinth, but I do recall the Goblin King accusing me of being cruel. He was right: I _**am**_ cruel. There's a wicked irony in my teenage self projecting my shadows onto this imagined creation, this king. It's like I couldn't accept my sins, so I looked elsewhere for a villain, and lo and behold, I found one.

* * *

To be continued.

**Author's note: **This story began as a one-shot vignette, but people asked for it to be expanded. Upon reflection, I realized just how deep this story actually could go, so I've decided to continue. I know the plot, how the story ends, and a few of the adventures that happen along the way, but I'm not sure how many more installments will be required to tell it all. It could be 2, it could be 20. I guess we'll find out together.

Hideaki Akaiwa is a real person. You can read more about his heroic exploits here: 2011/mar/17/world/la-fg-japan-quake-scuba-20110317.


	3. The Villain's Tale

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the makers of "Labyrinth". There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_One, two! One, two!_

_And through and through_

_The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!_

_He left it dead, and with its head_

_He went galumphing back._

- "Jabberwocky", Through the Looking-Glass

* * *

I'm sure you won't be surprised when I tell you that your understanding of your world is woefully deficient. Perhaps this statement raises your hackles a bit. That's understandable (a more accurate assessment would be, ___I don't care_), but moving right along. As I was saying, your knowledge is lacking, so I'm here to catch you up.

Every human society shares certain characteristics regardless of place or time: an organised social order, functional differentiation, reverence for the dead. Add to that: mythical understandings of where you came from. A few modern conspiracy theorists attribute humanity's origins to alien visitors. This sounds ridiculous, although in truth it's not much different from the explanations that your race has used for thousands of years.

Many societies claim humans descended from the gods. Others say you sprang up from the Earth like flowers in bloom. Still others insist a divine creator shaped the first of you from mud, water, or rib bones, depending on whom you ask.

Stuff and nonsense.

There is a particular sacred text among you that reads: ___Way yomer Elohim na'aseh adam beh'salmenu kidmutenu__._ "And God said, let us make man in our image, after our likeness." A note on the word ___Elohim__ – _this does not mean God (singular) but Gods (plural). A number of human scholars have said this clearly shows that Judaism (and later Christianity) hold roots in polytheism. Other scholars retort to this (quite correctly, I might add) that despite the plural, the rest of the grammar in Genesis still take the singular and therefore this pluralisation is nothing more than a case of ___pluralis excellentia__e_ or ___pluralis majestasis_.

In other words, this singular god is merely speaking in an elevated fashion typical of Yours Truly when we wish to make a point, give orders, or otherwise show our authority. (See what I did there?)

The Bible's original author was so close. There _****__**is **_one god, and yet there are many, and all together, we shaped the universe and are constantly reshaping it all the time. If you cry that this doesn't make sense or that I'm being intentionally vague, well, you wouldn't be the first to accuse me of unfairness. In any case, paradoxes can and do exist.

Here is another biblical example that fascinates me: "Let there be light." Or, in the French: ___Que la lumière soit__. __ Y_et the subjunctive doesn't exist in biblical Hebrew, not in the way an English or French speaker would recognize it, so the original Hebrew reads more like: ___There is light_. That's it. No command, no desire, just a statement.

Now, you could say this is a simple case of grammar rooted in a language that literally cannot use a subjunctive, but it makes you wonder: was this god giving an order, or simply stating a fact about what already was? Did He create the universe, or merely discover it? Is there such a thing as beginnings and endings, or just one continuous, cyclical inhalation and exhalation of a divine creator who will never be born and never die?

Being a lesser god, I've never created a universe, or a planet, or even a species. My specialty was stars and starlight, and even that doesn't make me terribly unique, for there were many gods contracted to create all those stars. Today, I have to settle more or less for glitter. It's a bit dull, but running a kingdom usurps my time – and to fully appreciate the destructive power of goblins, just imagine ruling a nation of coked-out toddlers.

We gods have our own stories about creation. You didn't know that, did you? Only our information is more accurate, given that we're a little closer to the limitless Source. This Source breathed out, and in that exhalation, everything was created. (This is actually quite similar to something written in Genesis, which again I find an impressive catch for a species that only recently discovered fire.) In that new space, pairs of gods set to work creating their own universes – this is whom Genesis was referring to as the Elohim. It _****__**was **_one God, yet each God was made of a male and a female being, a divine marriage, twin flames, so you could say they were plural even if they weren't. Paradoxes again.

In each universe, little sparks danced to life, the first gods, and began carving out the details: the galaxies and planetary bodies and oxygen molecules and living things. These are the gods you typically read about in myths who sometimes take physical form and walk among you. I am one of those. It grieves me to say I'm not nearly as powerful or recognisable as someone like Apollo, though I _****__**was **_a fertility god, once, before I fully settled into my role as the Goblin King. That was a most delicious job.

The closest I've ever come to creating a universe was … well, it's now, in the wake of that girl's destruction of my world. A decade is just a sneeze to a creature like me, but I have spent every second of every hour of every day of it rebuilding every facet of my kingdom. Along the way, I've discovered you need a strong back and a stronger will. I'm even rebuilding in my dreams, so sleep isn't a respite. On top of this, I've had to settle the rebelling goblin and chicken population. (A god of poultry, how low we have sunk.)

A decade is a long time in the life of a mortal. I need to finish this job soon so I have a chance at finding Sarah again. After the mess she's left me with, I have _****__**such **_a strong urge to thank her, though I doubt she would appreciate my idea of thanks.

* * *

Didymus is giving me that special half-crazed look of his that indicates I've lost my mind, but he's both too polite and concerned about his own skin to say so. "Prithee, Sire, tell me truly: whither are we bound?"

We sit astride our mounts on the road. To our back lay the Goblin City's gates; before us, the wilderness. The Fiery Forest lays southeast, on the outer ridges of this world as it now exists. To the north, the bog. To the east, the desert. To the west, nothingness. It takes time to rebuild a world destroyed.

I consult a map I've found in my library – a relic from a Roman officer who once traipsed about my realm. Apparently he returned physically whole to his kin but died soon after from insanity. Traveling the worlds is not to be taken lightly, especially for humans. Their bodies aren't really made for it, not without extensive training and some awareness of where they're going.

The map depresses me. So much of my world is still gone, so much more to rebuild. At this point, do I even wish to do so? I could pack up, sneak out the back door, find some other world to colonise. My kind have done it before.

No. I have my goblins, who despite their idiocy I still look upon as my children. And I have a duty to take unwanted babies. Also, leaving would be a concession to Sarah's memory, a final defeat. Damn her. No, I have time left in the Underground, things I still must do before I progress to my next role, whatever that is.

Didymus is fidgeting in his saddle, and I realize I haven't answered him yet. "You wished to accompany me, good sir knight," I murmur, marking the map with a broken pencil I've fished out of my satchel. "Now is hardly the time for regrets."

The fidgeting worsens. Didymus has never forgotten (nor have I let him) that he's a traitor – though I suppose I shouldn't blame him overmuch. Sarah usurped the goodwill of the rest of my kingdom, after all, so why would Didymus have escaped unscathed?

I squint at the horizon, return the map to the satchel, and take up my reins. I say nothing to Didymus. He knows well enough to follow.

I guide us west, toward the void that hovers on the edge of my kingdom like a dark cloud. The land here is rocky and dry – even the recent rains refuse to touch this place – so it's in desperate need of my attention. I have spent the last year dividing my time between rebuilding the infrastructure of the castle itself and rehanging the stars in this world, so you could say I've been too occupied. I average an hour of sleep a night, and even in my dreams, I'm shaping lakes and mountain ranges and forests. Every day, I awaken exhausted and irritable, and even my eyeballs hurt.

We reach an outcropping of sand-colored rocks and beyond that lies nothingness: hovering shadows flecked with what appear to be stars but aren't. Not really. True stars are gaseous balls of flame. These sparks indicate rifts in the dimensions, usually harmless and requiring an extensive patching up. You can tell there's a problem if –

Oh. Oh _**shit.**_

I sharply turn my horse. "Nothing that requires my immediate attention, Didymus. Let us away."

The little fox is losing his edge. He doesn't question me, raise an eyebrow, anything. Normally, this would be worrisome. For now, it's a relief.

* * *

"Will you be going out again today, Your Majesty?" asks the liveried goblin who approaches us in the courtyard as we dismount.

"No, but I want a word with Cornelius, and supper brought to my rooms." I nod at Didymus. "You are dismissed." Again, no questions, just a nod of his furry head and a bow before hurrying off. I hand the reins off to the goblin and stride into the great hall, undressing as I walk. _Crack!_ Two goblin valets literally appear out of thin air, frantically scuttling alongside me to catch the cloak and riding gloves I dump on their heads.

By the time I reach the central staircase, I'm almost running, taking three steps at a time. _Poof!_ Now I hear Cornelius bustling along behind me. He has a very distinct walk, my butler, like a dog trying to shake a fly off its rump. Like a good servant, he doesn't speak. We hurry down the corridor and into my rooms, where I immediately busy myself looking through my desk for paper and ink. It takes me a sad, pathetic moment before I realize that I have no one to write to.

"I require utmost privacy for the next three days and nights," I murmur in Cornelius' general direction. "I wish to perform a spell to aid in the recreation of the river along the Eastern Gate. During that time, no one is to disturb me."

My butler doesn't blink. "Would Your Majesty like meals brought up after tonight?"

"No. No disturbances whatsoever. If the castle is afire, fix it yourself."

"Of course, sir. I shall send along supper shortly."

"Thank you, Cornelius."

He bows and waddles out, leaving me to my preparations. The first thing I do is pull down a long lacquered box from a shelf in my wardrobe. Inside, bound in black velvet and tied with red rope: a sword. It is unlike any sword you will find anywhere, forged by a 600-year old blacksmith in Ise Jingu, where it is said the goddess Amaterasu materialised in physical form. The human monks there care for the temple, and behind the scenes beat back the darkness that sometimes intrudes upon that world.

The blacksmith is famous for making swords in the old way, with a catch: it takes a full year to make each sword, folding and refolding the metal many, many times to create the blade's strength. Also, he refuses to deal with anyone who doesn't speak Japanese, which I do. You could call it a perk of my age and experience.

Into the blade I have inscribed symbols that would burn out the eyes of any living being untrained to use them. The spirit inside the sword is no picnic, either, which is why I keep the weapon bound and hidden away. When I hold it, even with the velvet wrap in place, my hands throb and I begin to sweat. The sword knows when it's being called to battle. _Release me, _it croons._ We are going to war. I can feel it._

_Soon,_ I think soothingly – to the sword or to myself, I'm not sure. Maybe a little of both.

By that time, supper has arrived. A goblin enters, curtsies, and leaves a covered tray on my desk; alas, I have no appetite. I turn instead to my wardrobe, pulling on sturdy traveling clothes: leggings, tunic, boots, cloak, deerskin gloves with a wide cuff to protect my hands. When I finally unwrap the sword, I don't remove it from the scabbard, just thread it onto my belt. For good measure, I stash away knives on the baldric running across my chest. I have whispered magick into these knives before, so they'll eat away the flesh of an enemy, given the opportunity.

_Should I bring bells? _I glance at the closed door of my private office, where I store more weapons than some professional armouries. _No … not for this._ This is going to be a quiet job. If I do it right, I'll be in and out, and my passage will not be noticed. If I _**am**_ noticed … well, let's just say even bells probably won't save me, or my kingdom, so it's a moot point. Ten years of breaking my back to fix the Underground, only to see it all undone tonight. I simply refuse to say it's not fair, but still.

The kitchen has sent up a splendid repast: carrot soup, looks like, and chicken in a creamy white sauce, the smell of which makes me ill. Cornelius must be trying to stuff me in preparation for the next three days, because he's added an entire loaf of black bread, a hefty chunk of hard yellow cheese, some cured pork, and a small bottle of wine from my private stores. If I didn't know any better, I'd say my butler knows I'm lying about my plans. The thought leaves me uneasy. I don't like being readable.

Into my satchel, I pack the bread, the cheese, the meat, and the wine, ignoring everything else on the tray. By this time, I have no other excuses, no other distractions. Time to go.

The writing desk draws my eye. I'm stalling. I know I'm stalling. _Fuck it._ I sit and write a letter, sealing it with red wax and not a little glitter. Something to remember me by, I suppose. Across the front, in my rolling curlicue script: _Sarah Williams._ I slip that under the door with a note (_To be sent 3 days hence_) where I know a servant will find it. I should be back within that time to stop the letter; if not, all my worries are over, anyway.

At the last minute, I end up taking the bells. And an axe. Just in case.

* * *

Let us suppose that you were a jealous god whose humans had forgotten you. You could, theoretically, annihilate their city with a rain of destruction. It's been known to happen. Some gods farm out this nasty sort of work to lesser beings that we normally don't traffic with on a regular basis. Humans have specially trained sorcerers to deal with them. They call them exorcists.

I saw a film once, in the 1970's while in New York. I was on holiday after a particularly grueling baby job and noticed the humans were all queued up outside the cinema, only I didn't know it was a cinema. I joined the queue anyway. I figured they had to be waiting for something involving sex or food, because I couldn't for the life of me understand why anyone would just wait around in a crowd otherwise. By and by I learned they were waiting for a horror film about an exorcist. It wasn't a bad show, if a little dramatic, and a bunch of people either sicked up or swooned before it was through. I thought it was all rather hilarious.

Each world has its own system of checks and balances in place to protect it against the shadows. Sometimes, that system fails and something slips through. That's when magicians – god and human alike – have to step up and fix the problem. It's a horrid affair. Humans die or get taken. As for us gods ...

... I ... don't even want to think about it.

* * *

I materialise out of the castle, reappearing several miles away and continuing the journey on foot. If I must speak frankly, I should tell you that I'm praying I made a mistake. I'm not in the habit of being imperfect, but I'd rather be wrong than right, in this case.

Alas, I'm in for disappointment.

When I reach the rocky outcropping at the edge of the void, I can see the flashing, popping lights. In the centre of that hollow blackness, however, I still see the thing that had so alarmed me: a crack, reaching out and down into the surrounding dirt. I avoid looking at it directly, hunkering down behind a boulder. If you ever see such a rift, the general rule of thumb is: _Don't look at it. Don't acknowledge it. Don't speak of it. Get a trained professional to handle it._ The last thing you want to do is draw its attention, or the attention of whatever is on the other side. Nothing's changed since this afternoon, so my earlier visit with Didymus didn't set off any alarms. Excellent.

I stash the satchel of food behind the rock; no use of it where I'm going, not until later. Then I do an inventory check: sword, axe, knives, bells. All here.

_Now for the greatest disappearing act of our age. _ I allow my particles to drift – not too much, just enough to where I'm no longer solid and noticeable with the eyes. Pixies do this all the time, slipping back and forth between physical and etheric states. Now I am naught but a silent shadow.

To kill a rift, you have to go to its source, which means I have to slip unnoticed through the crack. This is insanely dangerous and stupid. Don't ever, ever do what I'm doing. I've done it before, once, about eight-thousand years ago in what today is called Wales, and fortunately I didn't have to fight anything. It's best when you can slip into a rift, destroy its heart, and slip back out again without resistance. Once the heart is destroyed, the rift collapses in on itself. The true danger of a rift is that it is, in truth, a portal between worlds – yours, and what human mythologies have labeled Hell – so you never know what you're going to find inside. It's like entering a cave and praying you don't meet a bear.

Human mages tried to destroy a rift, once, in a place that stories call Atlantis. They failed, and that civilisation was destroyed. I refuse to allow my kingdom to succumb to that fate.

Drifting and cloaked, I slip through the crack like a forgotten memory.

* * *

To begin: darkness, as if someone pulled a bag over my head. In that hollow black space, a light flares, drawing me forward like a love-stricken moth. I remember this, from eight millennium ago. All I have to do is douse the flame, kill the heart of this foul place. I concentrate, pulling my molecules back together, but only slightly – just physical enough to strike with a sword if needed, just enough to put out the light. Once the heart is dead, this between dimension is going to become very unstable, very quickly. I have to be ready to run.

"Hello? Is somebody there?"

I'm a deer before a predator, frozen.

"_**Hellooooo?!**_ I can hear somebody out there! Please, answer me!"

It's a trap. It must be a trap. But it can't be, can it? I made sure to cloak my presence, I'm still adrift on a current of air. Then the woman – because it's surely a woman, I can hear it in the voice – sobs, "Hoggle? Ludo? Are you out there?" My heart fills my mouth. No. No, no, no. Not Sarah. The Sarah I remember was just a child. No, Sarah would not be here. It's an impostor, something wearing her likeness.

_Perhaps she died,_ hisses a nasty little voice. It's inside my head, but I can't be sure it originates there. _You wouldn't know, would you? So busy you've been, rebuilding your precious Labyrinth. She could have died and you'd never know. They're so weak, humans, like wet tissue. You have no idea where she is or what trouble she's gotten up to in the last decade on Earth._

I'm silent. Even my thoughts are silent. It's got to be a trick. I refuse to answer, instead quietly begin to weave a water spell to douse the flame.

"... Jareth? Jareth, please." She's clearly on the verge of suffering a breakdown. Something in the darkness moves, I can feel it, and Sarah screams as if a blade has just unzipped her from stomach to sternum.

Her scream jolts me in my place, solidifying me back into a physical body and completely destroying the water spell I've been weaving. All higher thought ceases. I bolt into the shadows, away from the light. My feet slip over a rocky path leading me down, down, down. "Sarah?" She doesn't answer, just screams again, but it's reduced to a strangled moan. Mice make that sound, just before I eat them.

I'm running. _Scream again, Sarah. Tell me you're alive._

Something hits me with the force of a train and catapults me into a hard surface. Unstoppable force meets immovable object. All air sucked from my lungs. I can't even grunt in shock. It hauls me up by my throat and slams me into the ground – _oh look, there goes my dignity_ – once, twice, thrice, then pins me to a wall.

A little air in my lungs now, enough to make a noise. I exhale in a burst, sending with it a spray of blood and teeth. _Sarah, make some noise. Make some noise, kitten. Tell me where you are. I'm coming._

"I think not."

I've seen mercury move across a smooth surface. The darkness moves like that now, retreating from around me to hide somewhere in the corners. I'm in a cavern, and I am, indeed, pinned to the wall by an invisible force. My eyes travel down to the middle of the room. A figure sits hunched on the floor, an old woman with soft down hair and a wrinkled face and shaking little hands. Those hands rapidly juggle a shuttle across a loom that holds either a tapestry or a death shroud. From the loom run hundreds of threads, snaking out in all directions, including up the staircase I have traveled in the dark. I'm put to mind of a spider quietly waiting at the centre of her web.

I don't see Sarah anywhere. When I try moving my head, whatever holds me presses on my throat until I gag.

The old woman slowly stands, stretches out the kink in her back, and adjusts her glasses at me. "Oh ho, we've caught ourselves a fly. A little scrawny, though."

I spit a wad at her.

"... if quite fiery," she finishes. "Don't misunderstand, I like to see passion in my victims. There'd be no sport, otherwise." She squints. "Jareth, is it? The Goblin King, Lord of the Southern Marshes, Lesser Emperor of the Lower Lands, Guardian to the Nightmare Realms, so on and so forth? You'll forgive me if I don't wear out all your titles. At my age, you learn to conserve your strength."

Mine is a bloody smile promising retribution. "Forgive me, madam, you seem to know me but I haven't had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

"You're a polite boy, even skipped using the royal 'we'. Getting right down to brass tacks. I like that." She plucks a chord on her loom, and more strings shoot out into the darkness like a fisherman casting lures. "It's been a while since I caught anything. I must say, I didn't expect to land an immortal king. Usually the only ones stupid enough to wander into my traps are humans and goblins. But it wasn't stupidity, was it? You came calling to stick a knife in me, I know. Well, I must laud your bravery. You got cajones, kid. No one will ever debate you on that."

The invisible thumb at my throat squeezes again, and I see stars. _I move the stars for no one …_

"That heart of yours will be the end of you, my boy." She stands before me now, smoking a pipe. She's even smaller than I thought, wouldn't come up past my chest if we were standing evenly. Her gaze is speculative, like a prospector inspecting the teeth of a horse. "That's why you built that Labyrinth of yours, isn't it? Tried to keep everyone away from that fearsome heart, am I right? It worked fine, too, until the day someone battered the doors down. Not even a grown warrior but a child. Kind of pathetic, really."

_No, stop, please._

She smiles. Demons are, after all, mind readers. It's a terrible smile, even more terrible than mine, and people have said I have the grin of a bull shark scenting blood. "Hurts, doesn't it? I'm sorry." She doesn't sound sorry at all. "Like I said, been a while since I caught a god. Your kind are real impossible to kill, you know that? Believe me, we've tried. Fortunately, your power is an incredible asset, strong enough to destroy worlds once you're turned. I've never had a goblin king for a pet, but I think I'll like that very much."

_No. Oh, no. Sarah -_

"-yes, Sarah. You really don't know what she's been up to these past ten years, do you? You've been too busy rebuilding the world she's destroyed. Too bad you weren't quick enough to notice the crack she left between the dimensions before it was too late." The demon puffs thoughtfully on her pipe. "Would you like to know what your precious Sarah has been up to? Whether she's happy? Got any addictions? How many men she's bedded that weren't you?"

I glare silently from my pinned position, nostrils flared.

"... no," she finally says. "No, you're smart. You know demons bandy about with the truth even more than your kind do. I could weave you a nice story, Goblin King, one you'd like. I'd even include tits and ass in it. Henceforth, you'll be asleep inside that shell of yours anyway, your will completely subjugated by my own as I send you out to torture and destroy others, so you might as well enjoy a skin flick inside your head. You're a big boy, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

I bare my teeth. _Angry. So angry._

"Hmm, I realize it's a big adjustment. We'll have to work on this relationship. Frankie?" She's speaking somewhere else, somewhere far away. The far wall of the cavern expands out into infinity, into another world, someplace endless and dark. In that dead zone lies the birthplace of nightmares and the coppery stink of humanity's worst emotions: fear, jealousy, rage. It's the Nightmare Realm, the place whose door I hold shut at my outpost at the end of the universe.

Somewhere in the soupy void, thunder rumbles. Then a heavy footstep thumps the ground, and I realize that's not thunder but a growl._  
_

The demon turns back to me with a kind, grandmotherly expression – or at least, I think it's what humans would call grandmotherly. I wouldn't know, never having had a grandmother, myself. "You'll like Frankie," she says soothingly. "Or, I mean, you will, once you're turned. She'll have to break you down a bit though, and rip your spine out through your mouth. That's what she does with the humans she catches; I'm not sure if it'll work with you, but we'll give it a shot. The first place we'll stop will be your Underground. Once we batter down the door to the Nightmare Realms, just think about how much fun we'll have in the human world. It'll be complete horror, even better than the Black Death and the Atlantic slave trade combined. People will be knifing each other left and right. Total chaos. I wish I could see it all." She cocks her head at me, appraising. "Yep, you're about the best investment I've come across in a good while."

The thing in the darkness rumbles again, closer, and then a massive head juts out through the hole where the far wall used to be. It's too hairy to be a lizard, but its teeth draw my attention more than anything. Frankie shakes her head furiously, like a dog killing a rat, and the hole widens to accommodate her – twenty tons of her, claws and all. I'm not sure my land will be able to withstand Frankie's weight. Perhaps that's the point.

I recognise Frankie from my reading, of course, but that's a relatively new name for her. The Egyptians called her the Devourer and feared meeting her after death. An even older human language (the people who spoke it long forgotten by history) called her by multiple epithets, including _Bone-Shaker _and _Destroyer of Worlds_.

The pressure on my throat is unbearable. If I were mortal, I'd already have suffocated. As it is, I'm in agony. It's almost impossible to move my lips.

The demon frowns and leans closer, looking for all the worlds like a concerned school matron. "What is it, sweetums?"

"W-wi ..."

"Speak up, honeybunch, I'm hard of hearing."

I lock eyes with her. When I speak, my throat burns. "Wish. Granted."

I'm weak, but the magick still works. I push **_out_ **and feel it leave me. It turns into a crystal ball and shatters in the demon's face, showering her with her imagined apocalypse. She screams as if I've just thrown acid in her face, which I pretty much have. She should have been specific with her wish. Watching an entire world collapse in on itself all at once can be disorienting, even for one of the Fallen. Ah, well.

Frankie howls, loosing rock from the ceiling. As the demon thrashes, the force holding me vanishes, dropping me on my arse.

My body moves without my brain. I blow past the demon, running for her loom, running toward the opposing wall where Frankie scrambles to clear the portal. I pull the sword from my belt – the ensorcelled sword inscribed with symbols that will burn out the eyes of anyone untrained to use them.

I roar, "**_Kusanagi no Tsurugi! Awaken!_**"

The blade flares to life, and inside my head, a voice cackles madly, _**YES!**_ The loom shatters under our blow; the strings quiver like an animal gutted. Frankie wails. I pull out the axe – also imbued with a spirit, not as strong as the one in the sword but certainly no slouch. With a heave and a shout, I throw it.

The axe blows a hole in Frankie's chest that spits white light and flame, and the monster collapses, all twenty tons of her. She falls partly in the cavern and partly on the other side of the portal in the Nightmare Realm, pulling down part of the ceiling with her.

The ground tilts beneath us, dropping me to my knees. _Run, my keeper,_ the sword growls. I'm already on my feet, legging it for the stairs.

"_**Jareth!**_" The grandmother disguise is gone. The demon's voice is now midnight given form, the hatred in it strong enough to peel flesh from a corpse. "I will find you! No matter where you go, no matter how many worlds you travel or mortal lifetimes you live, I will find you and I will take you! Foolish little god! _**Nothing**_ you love is safe! I will find your Sarah and make a throne from her bones, and I'll make you watch!"

The rest of the ceiling is going to collapse any second, so we have to move fast. Before we leave, we take her head.

* * *

I can feel the subterranean room implode beneath my feet as I bolt up the stairs, as I slide the sword into its sheath. Suddenly, as if a giant's spine has snapped, the staircase buckles. The ground drops from under me with a roar, and I leap – I don't know where, only forward, forward, into forever. When my fingers touch something solid, I'm surprised and relieved … then the rest of my body drops and slams into it, knocking the wind out of me, and I'm not so grateful.

I'm hanging over the edge of a cliff, the staircase completely collapsed.

The world around me shakes as if springing to life after a long sleep. Beneath me, in the black pit where I've left two dead monsters, I hear moaning. Ah, curse. Frankie's blocking the portal to the Nightmare Realms, wedging it open like a door. _Oh, this is bad._

I heave myself over the lip of the destroyed staircase, depositing myself into the little antechamber lit by the flame. It still burns merrily. I clap my hands and hiss. When the materialised liquid douses the flame, the world around me constricts as if gasping for oxygen.

With the flame gone and me plunged into total darkness, I can see … ah, there: twinkling stars, and a sandstone landscape. The other side of the rift in time and space. Home. I stumble toward it.

Sulfur and brimstone burn my nostrils. Behind me, something scrambles up the destroyed staircase with a sound like bat wings. So close to home, yet so far. I suppose this is how it ends: not dead (for how could I die?) but surely trapped, perhaps eaten away by madness after a few thousands years. The world around me twists, and I make my decision.

I turn away from the portal leading home … and I pull the bells from my belt, remove them from the protective leather straps that bind their clappers.

There are two bells: a small one to stun, and a large one to kill. When I shake the small one, the sound peals across this dark place with a high joyful ring as if calling the faithful to mass. The winged things in the shadows shriek, dazed and confused. Several of them thump to the ground, knocked clean out of the air. Many of them thud uncomfortably close to my feet.

I close my eyes and ring the large bell. This time, the world around me trembles as if I've applied an electrical shock, as if blowing out its heart wasn't bad enough. A pinpoint in the distance, behind the inky blackness of the collapsed staircase, contracts and then expands outward, eating up everything in its path. The winged things in the dark elicit a long, drawn-out death rattle.

I drop the bells. They thud with a clang into the dirt, and the ground jumps. _Well, this is it._

Silly me, I hadn't counted on simple physics. When that world explodes, it spits me backward and through the portal just before it roars in on itself.

* * *

Something far away is making silly noises. Eventually the stars stop dancing and I realise Didymus and his brothers stand over me. Then the sky stops spinning, and Didymus and his kin congeal into one, and there is only one Didymus after all – thank goodness. I can barely stand the original. I still can't understand what he's saying. The noises issuing from his mouth put me to mind of a horse backing up over a cat.

I try shouting, "You old nincompoop, speak some sense!" Instead it comes out: "_**Euuuuuunnghghghgh.**_"

Finally I realise that Didymus is asking Our Royal Self how many fingers he'd holding up, and all sorts of nonsense. I desperately want wine. Something, anything, just knock me out and relieve me of this headache. "Didymus, the sounds you're making worsen the pain in our head. Do shut up."

The simple knight straightens up gleefully and calls over his shoulder, "His Majesty is awake! Fetch a stretcher!"

_Gods, no, fetch me wine, and loads of it._ "We are not going anywhere on a stretcher!" I snarl, heaving myself onto my elbows, which isn't such a great idea because the motion sets the world to spinning again. It takes a moment and a deep breath to centre myself. Didymus is not alone: we're surrounded by goblins. Hordes of goblins. Small goblins, big goblins, half my army, by the look of things. "Didymus! Damn and blast - what is the _**meaning**_ of this?"

My knight draws himself up to his full height – not an easy job, given that he's barely tall enough to bite my kneecaps off – but what he lacks in dimensions, he makes up for in spirit. "Forgive me, sire, but I knew something was wrong earlier today when we crossed this place. 'Tis not like Your Majesty to suddenly flee from an important job. So I alerted the army, and we followed you and hid in the forest awaiting your next move."

I'm not sure whether to be enraged by the flagrant disobedience or oddly touched. _ I'll have a better idea how to react once I've slept. _ I try standing again but promptly pitch to the side like a ship suddenly demasted in a storm. My loyal goblins part like a curtain, and I hit the ground hard. Something reeks of rotten eggs. Gods, it's me. So that's what that persistent sound is: steam rising from my skin and clothes, as if I've been baked in an oven. I'm very warm.

Beside myself, I begin to laugh. Didymus' ears twitch in concern. "Sire, are you alright?"

I should respond, _Yes, of course, you twit_, but the laughter won't stop. I want to move, want to turn my head, but it's a stone tumbling down a deep well and pulling me after it.

* * *

My eyes slide open to sunshine. I'm in my bed, the crisp linens pulled up to my neck. Perhaps it was all a horrid dream. Then I try moving, and every muscle in my body seizes up. No. Definitely not a dream. I groan as if being strangled.

"How are you feeling today, Your Majesty?" Cornelius stands at attention at my bedside as if he's always stood there. I wouldn't be surprised if he's stood vigil since my officers delivered my unconscious body.

I grunt. "Like a dragon has tap-danced on my head. What?"

"I said nothing, sir."

"I could have sworn you said something."

"That might be the buzzing in your ears, sir. Quite typical of head trauma. I assure you, it's nothing permanent, especially for an illustrious being such as yourself. Your kind are made of far sturdier stuff than that."

"Lovely."

"Can I get you anything?"

"A bullet."

"Sir?"

"Tea."

"Very good, sir." He vanishes in a puff of smoke, reappearing an instant later with a hot cup of something steaming with a vaguely lemon scent. It smells heavenly. "The kitchen is delighted to fix you dinner. You've been asleep for three days."

"It's a wonder it's not three centuries." Every bone in my body creaks as I sit myself upright against the pillows. Cornelius starts in concern, but I wave him off. I'm not wearing my gloves, or the traveling clothes I donned for my expedition, just loose sleep pants. I'm sure it's Cornelius' work: neither Didymus nor my soldiers would have the brains for such a detail. I'm far too sticky to have been given a bath, but I can tell that someone has sponged the worst of the filth from my body. Cornelius again, bless his heart.

My butler clears his throat. I raise an eyebrow, not sure I can stand any further surprises. Not now.

"You have some … messages for you, sir," Cornelius stammers. Actually stammers. Both my eyebrows travel to meet my hairline. "Words of greeting from neighbouring kingdoms."

"Greetings?" I ask, bewildered.

"Yes, sir. To congratulate you on the … changes."

"**_Changes?_**"

"Please, look outside, sir," he murmurs deferentially, still clutching my tea.

I stumble from the bed, forcing myself to ignore the coarse waves of pain. When I reach the window, my first thought is that the castle has shifted itself again. The view outside cannot possibly be _**my** _land. My bedroom has a perfect view of the west, where for the past ten years a dark void has hovered like a storm cloud. Now I see only forest and mountains and a distant swath of desert: a world that is whole, pristine, untouched.

If it weren't for the wall next to my bed, I would hit the floor again. As it is, I waste precious seconds trying to regain my composure. I actually gasp.

"Rather beautiful work, sir, if I do say so," Cornelius adds.

"Yes." There is an idiotic smile on my face, but it feels detached from the rest of me, as if every part of myself has already flown to pieces. "Yes, it certainly is."

* * *

Destroying the rift has repaired the Underground beyond my wildest dreams. I estimate that it's already added several hundred square miles back to my kingdom. It's the grandest victory I've had in years. I want to sing, perhaps dance a little, but too much excitement isn't doing well for these bones. I quickly return to bed, where Cornelius brings me the promised dinner and a stack of waiting correspondence.

"I took the liberty of opening your letters, sir," my butler informs me as he pours more tea. I've already inhaled the first cup with the alacrity of a hummingbird. "There are several requests for social visits, I wager to check in on Your Majesty's health and the general state of things."

General state of things. Right. What Cornelius means is the neighbours want to see how weak I am and if now is the appropriate time to launch an invasion. "Yes, the neighbours always were nosy little tossers, weren't they?" I flip through some envelopes, suddenly tired.

I can't imagine taking guests in my present state. I'll need time to recover. Nothing food and rest won't fix – and perhaps a good romp, though with my injuries anything vaguely sexual might only injure me further. Having narrowly escaped my kingdom being ripped asunder a second time, however, and my person nearly being unwillingly conscripted to the forces of darkness, I'll take my chances. The current craving for sex actually surpasses the one I have to drink myself under the bed. Maybe I'll do the first and then the second, just to cover all my bases.

Sarah.

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. For so long, I've waffled between wanting to throttle her and wanting to punish her for what she did to my kingdom. (In my fantasies, the manner of punishment typically involves handcuffs and a riding crop.) Demons, however, have a terrible knack for revealing the innermost secrets of one's soul – it's how they know the best way to torture their victims, and believe me, they've had millions of years to hone their skills. You can never trust anything a demon says, yet you can certainly discover a lot about yourself by the things they use against you. Shadows can be most helpful that way.

I descended into Hell, and in that wretched place I could have found anything. _**Anything.**_ What I found was Sarah. The demon knew exactly what my weakness was. It distracted me enough from my mission and nearly cost me both kingdom and freedom.

The truth stings: I think … I'm in love with the same woman who rejected and destroyed me. _Damn it. __**Damn it.**__ What kind of sick masochistic bastard am I? _I sink further into the pillows, dig my hands further into my eyes. If I could, I would pop them straight out of my skull. It might relieve the tension.

_That's why you built that Labyrinth of yours, isn't it? Tried to keep everyone away from that fearsome heart, am I right? It worked fine, too, until the day someone battered the doors down. Not even a grown warrior but a child. Kind of pathetic, really._

Damn demons. Damn Sarah, with her damned fairy tale about a goblin king who fell in love with a girl and gifted her with his powers. I've tried to ignore it, tried to waylay her with intimidation, physical threats, and finally seduction, and nothing worked. She bypassed it all like I was nothing. Damn her. Yet even as I think all this, a whisper in my head croons, _Precious thing._

Lust I can play like a musician with an instrument. I don't know how to handle love. It's why I built the Labyrinth in the first place. Don't mistake this sudden epiphany for softness, mind you. I still plan on tying Sarah to my headboard.

Just when I think things can't get worse: enter Sod's Law, stage left. I bolt upright. "Cornelius, where is that letter I slipped under my door?"

My butler looks up from fussing about my chambers. "Letter, sir? Your note said to send it after three days, and you've been unconscious all that while. I believe the staff has seen to its delivery."

I want the mattress to swallow me whole. "Oh. Great."

* * *

To be continued


	4. Road's end

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the makers of "Labyrinth". There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother._

- Abraham Lincoln

* * *

Let me tell you some of my happiest memories. I'd hate to leave you with the false impression that I've lead a terrible life.

One of my favorite memories remains the day I met my name. I was six, and Mrs. Pimm walked around the classroom showing each person how to spell their name in script. We weren't going to learn script until fourth grade, but I guess she wanted to give us a goal to strive for. I was so excited that I could barely sit in my chair. I liked Mrs. Pimm because she let me stand or dance next to my desk if I felt like it during lessons, provided I didn't disturb anyone. Nowadays, the grown-ups would have just drugged me.

When Mrs. Pimm showed me my name (written in blue ink on construction paper), I jumped up to dance. I didn't understand the flowy lines, but I knew that this was my name and I was very happy to meet it. It felt like being reintroduced to an old friend, and I decided then and there that I would do my stupid homework if it meant being able to write and read.

I've never been the type of person who does well memorizing crap out of a textbook. I only made it alive through school because I drew during class. Seriously, if you look at my old notebooks, they're 80% drawings and 20% actual academic content. I don't know how I passed anything, let alone graduated with honors. I think being able to express myself creatively allowed some room for science and math and geography to filter in through the cracks.

No, to learn something, I need to taste it, touch it, play with it. I need an experience.

So I learned English not by memorizing grammar but by reading novels. I swallowed whole volumes of C.S. Lewis, Stephen King, Rudyard Kipling, Octavia Butler, Orhan Pamuk, Anton Chekhov – and that was in elementary school. I was the only student in Mr. Turner's fifth grade classroom to do a book report on _The Satanic Verses_. I tried Dickens, but _Oliver Twist_ made me want to set things on fire. We read Dickens' work as books today, but he originally wrote magazine serials, and he got paid by the word. That's why a dinner in a Dickens' novel takes fifty pages and uses vocabulary that's the stuff of a Scrabble player's wet dream.

I discovered _The Hobbit_ by accident; it was misplaced on a bookstore shelf next to some Sandman comics. Dad gave me a funny look when I brought it to him. Not many eight-year old kids read Tolkien, I guess. But my father is a cool guy, and he bought it for me anyway. I read it in one week, even skipped ballet class. How could I concentrate on pliés when Bilbo Baggins was facing down the great and terrible Smaug, the scourge of an entire countryside?

Language began overflowing into all areas of my life. I learned to recognize how a particular word could change the emotion behind an entire sentence. Until Mom left us, I even enjoyed acting. I liked the bawdy puns that Shakespeare sprinkled through his works, a trait shared by Led Zeppelin. It turns out the might Zep loved Tolkien just as much as I did. The first song of theirs I ever heard was _Ramble On_.

I'll never forget it. Toby crawled around my feet while I halfheartedly memorized vocab for the SAT, and the song started with a light, steady thumping. It sounded, I thought, like someone quickly hitting something with a riding crop. (I don't know where that image came from.)

But what grabbed me were the lyrics:

_ Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear._

_ How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air._

_ T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair._

_ But Gollum and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, her, her … yeah._

I actually turned and stared at my stereo as if it would bite. Toby stopped chewing on Lancelot long enough to ask in his sweet baby voice if I was okay.

I was and I wasn't. It was surreal to hear such amazing music about magic and a favorite fantasy story. It felt like a kiss. Yet when Robert Plant sang of the darkest depths of Mordor and a girl so fair and the evil one slipping away with her, I actually saw myself in a dank castle with a roguish king who begged to be my slave. That damn memory again.

Oh, sorry, I mean "memory". Quotation marks included.

It's an eerie song, but lighthearted, and that day Led Zeppelin became my favorite band. Over the next few weeks, I slowly made my way through all of their albums. I listened to them so much that the librarian confiscated my iPod.

* * *

Drawing must have made me smarter than I give myself credit for, because by the time I was seventeen, I had the option to graduate early. I took it and lit on out of high school so fast I'm surprised the suction didn't carry my classmates along with me.

It was the smartest decision I ever made. The mentality of humans shifts once they leave high school. Suddenly, the bullying behavior that seemed okay for twelve years is no longer tolerated. I got a scholarship that covered college tuition, and I doubled up on courses so I could get through in just under three years. By the age of twenty, I had my coveted degree and no direction in life. Congrats, Williams.

So I got a job. I'm told it's what grown-ups are supposed to do.

I lasted three months. I got so depressed sitting at a desk. At least in school I could get away with drawing during lectures, or covertly listening to music during study halls, and the band teacher had let me use her classroom to play guitar. But the adult world doesn't welcome creativity so much. It prefers tangible things like Excel spreadsheets.

At the end of those three months, I fled again – this time to a French city called Tours, where I taught English and discovered that French teenagers hate high school just as much as American ones do. This says something about what we call education. For some reason, we associate torture with edification, as if suffering builds character.

When my contract ended, I didn't go home to New York, just got on another plane. I spent the next few years traveling the world, hopping from job to job. Morocco, Kenya, Egypt, Thailand, Mongolia, France again. I was a knight on a quest, though I was never sure what exactly my quest was.

* * *

I met Hassan in a Paris tea salon. I'd walked in looking for a bite to eat, and he fed me a flaky pastry that, dripping with pistachios and honey, glued my jaws shut. Hassan was a middle-aged guy with two daughters who were my age, and I think he could tell I was lonely. He spoke good English, and by this time my French no longer sucked, so I came back the next evening. I have a knack for making friends no matter where I am.

In this way, Hassan sort of adopted me. Paris is a beautiful city, but it's discombobulating to newcomers. Whenever I visited, Hassan would take breaks from serving tea to his customers and we'd talk. History, politics, poetry, it didn't matter.

He tried teaching me Arabic for a while – total waste of time. I've already said that I don't do well in a classroom setting. The only reason I could communicate in French was by just speaking it to people and learning as I went. Memorizing Arabic grammar out of a primer was as disastrous as learning English in elementary school. We gave up after a few lessons.

The thing you had to understand about Hassan was that he was exceedingly generous. It's a byproduct, I think, of being Lebanese. You can't ever compliment a Lebanese person on his watch, because he'll try to give it to you. Hassan fled Beirut twenty years previously during the civil war. I don't know the details. I never had the nerve to ask.

He set up shop in Paris and raised a family there, and in his spare time, he helped other lost and frightened immigrants. He hooked people up with roommates, French lessons, visa paperwork. I think that's why Hassan recognized the loneliness in my face when he first met me. He'd once been in my shoes. And teaching his language to me, he felt, was his duty as a Lebanese.

When he'd heard my initial plan to check out Arabic lessons at the Arab World Institute, he insisted, "You cannot do that. They will take too much money and teach you Egyptian Arabic." He said this in a way that indicated he regarded Egyptian Arabic the same way many Americans thought of English spoken in Staten Island. "That is why I will teach you Arabic instead."

The only thing I did enjoy about Arabic was learning the alphabet. I can see why calligraphy is such a big thing in the Arab world. All those long, flowing strokes! I spent hours practicing my letters. I'd slip into a meditative state similar to the one I'm in when I draw.

Oh, yes, drawing … I was making good money by this time drawing portraits. It supplemented my income as a virtual assistant and web designer. I still have sketchbooks filled with drawings of Notre-Dame and old men playing pétanque in the park near my apartment.

I spent fourteen months in Paris, my longest stay abroad in any one place. It was even starting to feel like home. Then one day, I got a call from an unlisted number, which never happened. Out of mere curiosity, I answered. I was drawing at a small outdoor cafe, and the air rolling off the Seine that November morning was chill. The memory is so vivid, it's baked into my brain.

"Allo?" I asked.

"Sarah, darling?"

The world caved in on itself. "... Mom?"

"Oh, Sarah, you sounded perfectly French there. I didn't recognize you."

My tongue struggled to move. For a moment, I forgot how to work my mouth. "How did you get my number?"

She ignored my question. "Are you still in Paris?"

I should have denied it just to be spiteful, but instead I stuttered, "How do you know I'm in _**Paris****?**_"

"I'm very resourceful, Sarah, you know that. I heard you graduated this spring. Congratulations."

"Mom, I … I graduated two years ago."

"Please, Sarah, call me Linda." That's right, now I remembered. Mom always wanted to be one of those hip mothers. She never really liked being called _Mom_, the way normal mothers did. "Listen, I'm going to be in London next week on business. I was wondering, would you like to have lunch? I have some friends I'd love to introduce you to, and it's been so long since we've seen each other."

The anxiety was now an angry fist inside of me. I could barely breathe. "Mom, it's been … why are you contacting me now? What do you want?"

She had the audacity to make a small, hurt noise. "Don't I get to spend time with my own daughter? I made some mistakes, Sarah. Please don't demonize me for them."

"Are you kidding me? I haven't seen you in ten years and now you call me out of the blue to take me to lunch in England? Are you _**serious?**_"

"Sarah-"

"Does Dad know you're doing this?"

"You know your father and I don't talk-"

"Well, maybe you should!" I snapped. Talk in the cafe visibly hushed, and a waiter shot me a dirty look. I ignored them. "You … you have no idea what it was like after you left. We loved you and you left us for some asshole with a pretty smile. Was he worth it?"

Mom hissed through her teeth. I thought I heard something else, and I noticed something I'd missed in my original shock: she was slurring. "I'm trying to live in the present, Sarah, not in the past. Please don't-"

"Are you drunk?"

"Of course not-"

"You're drunk." All the fight went out of me then. "Mom, you need to own up to the fact that you're an alcoholic. This is going to kill you."

"I am _**not**_ an – you know, I can see this was a mistake." She didn't even sound upset, just out of it. I wouldn't be surprised if she was on something besides booze. "I should go." And before I realized it, I was holding a dead line.

I headed to Hassan's salon on auto-pilot. By the time I stumbled in the door, I'm sure I looked like an accident victim, I was so numb and angry. Hassan saw the danger signal and promptly stuffed me into a squishy armchair alongside a bookshelf filled with poetry by Francis Marrash and Hafiz Ibrahim, then served me tea in little cups laced with sugar cubes. Before I realized it, he'd begun a one-sided conversation to redirect my attention. Hassan always was a master at shifting the energy in a room.

In this way, I felt the anger begin to subside and feeling return to my legs, and the strange moment passed.

"My mother called me this afternoon," I finally admitted.

"Ah." Hassan didn't know that my mother was the famous Linda Young, but he knew the basics: that my mom had an affair and left when I was a kid. I still don't tell people the details. I always appreciated that Hassan respected my privacy. He didn't like to stick his nose where it didn't belong. He chewed thoughtfully on his pipe stem at my news. "I suppose it did not go well."

"No, it didn't."

"Ah," he said again.

I blurted, "Why is the world terrible?"

Hassan looked tired. "It depends on whom you ask. There are some people who will tell you that evil is the work of djinn. I never did understand how your movies make them into happy little helper spirits that will give you three wishes."

"Do you believe in djinn?"

"Pff. Only backwater people believe that. But I do believe that every man and woman must face their own internal demons and decide whether they wish to listen to their heart or to the nasty little ego that incites them to jealousy and war." He looked thoughtful. "... so I guess you could say that I do believe in djinn, if that is what you mean."

"Aren't djinn mentioned in the Qu'ran?"

"It is written that, save the Prophet, there is not one among us who is not appointed a djinni. Perhaps that is a reference to our dark sides."

"We all have our personal Darth Vaders."

"Mm-hmm."

"So you do believe in djinn."

"Perhaps," he said in a polite way that really meant: _No, I do not_. "But I do believe in angels."

"How can you believe in one but not the other?"

"I am an eternal optimist." And he chuckled at me, as if he told the funniest joke.

* * *

Three days later, I was on a plane for Istanbul. My speedy exit royally pissed off my landlord, who made some flip comment that I must have been fleeing hellhounds. Maybe I was.

* * *

By the time I got to Tokyo, I was twenty-three and eight grand in debt. Yeah, you read that right: $8,000, all on credit cards. It just sort of sneaked up on me. (Weak, right? I know. I take full responsibility here for screwing myself.)

I can only compare credit card debt to gaining weight after college. One minute, you're ripped like Popeye and the star of the football team, the next you're fat as a house and haven't moved from your cubicle in ten years. One minute, you're only paying the minimums on your credit card balance, the next you're about to lose your shirt. Take a lesson from me: don't do what I did. I was an idiot.

I had enough money to travel from Narita Airport to Shinjuku Station, which I later learned is the busiest transport station in the world. It boasts 35 platforms and 3.5 million travelers in any 24-hour period. That's why it was easy for me to curl up in a corner and nod off while literally millions of people raced past me in tightly formed lines, like schools of salmon swimming upstream.

The heavy crowds were still there when I awoke hours later. At least, I thought it was hours later. The crazy thing about Shinjuku Station is that much of it is underground. It has the same effect as playing craps in Vegas: no windows, no clocks, so your sense of time warps. I had to walk up a few flights of stairs and make some random turns before I could find an exit. The light outside (faint and pinkish) told me that it was shortly after dawn. I sat down right there on the sidewalk to think.

I had a few incoming projects that would pay, so that was good, but it wasn't enough to really be flush. I'd bitten myself in the ass with the debt thing. I didn't have any student loans, but the credit card stuff … I'd seen it bury other people. You'd think I would have learned from them, but I guess I hadn't. I probably should have considered this before traveling to one of the world's most expensive cities.

_I need to get myself stable,_ I realized. _I've been living on the edge for years without a plan or a safety net. _That was what Karen would call my come-to-Jesus moment. The way I'd been living my life wasn't working.

I had friends in Tokyo, and I texted one to ask where I could find the Japanese equivalent of Staples. Reimi texted back something along the lines of, _Are you for real? Get your ass over to my place!_ I arrived in time for a late breakfast and an offer to sleep on her couch.

Reimi told me that the Japanese equivalent of Staples was Askul, where everybody bought office supplies. I found one a few subway stops from her apartment and bought a notepad, then went to a park. The way I brainstorm always starts with drawing, so I drew the kids playing in the park and a gardener tending the bushes. Then I drew pixies, and a dwarf, and a bipedal fox with a hat and a vest and a sword, and a hairy monster that might have been a carnivorous yak.

Before I knew it, I was drawing the Goblin King in his rotting black armor, his hair wilder and shaggier than I remembered. He looked like a knight who had fallen asleep in a fairy ring for a thousand years and woken up to discover the rest of the world had continued turning without him. He lay curled up in a window seat overlooking a rose garden, but he gazed directly at me, the artist who'd created him. The expression in his mismatched eyes was pensive, and I wondered what he was thinking.

_Time to work, Williams_, I scolded myself.

Alongside the drawings, I began to calculate figures. How much I owed, how much I made, how much time I had left before I had to renew my passport. I wrote a list of my skills and strengths that looked like this:

_1. I can code like a boss_

_2. I know how to see much and say little_

_3. I easily build rapport with others_

It became a long list. Next to it, I wrote a second list of possible jobs I could do based on these qualities. Web design. Tutoring English. Business consulting. Developing apps. Dog walking. Pet sitting. That list got long, too. I wrote down everything, regardless of how stupid it sounded. By the time I was done with the exercise, I had eighty ideas. Now I had to pick a few of the best ones and do some research to find which was most feasible and in demand by the market.

It was, I thought, time to create that stable system I've needed for so long – perhaps hadn't had ever since Mom left. By the time I returned to Reimi's, it was late afternoon and my notepad was filled with drawings, notes and a game plan.

* * *

I spent three weeks on Reimi's couch before I insisted on moving into a hotel. I hated impeding on her hospitality. Reimi thought I was nuts. "Are you going to stay in a hotel for the next year or whatever?" she demanded. "You can't rent an apartment without working papers, and you can't get **_those_ **unless you have an office job."

"I'll manage," I replied. But the truth was, I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew this: in every other place I'd ever been, I'd always been able to secure lodging for myself, no matter how bad the housing market was. I spent two nights in a hotel in Shibuya, and within that time I found a nearby apartment for rent. There were six other people looking at the place when I arrived - half of them Japanese, the other half gaijin like me, and I figured the landlord would prefer Japanese to foreigners.

The landlord was an old lady who took one look at me, asked me precisely three questions, then decided on the spot that I could rent the apartment. You can't imagine how pissed off everybody else was. I think this is my personal record for finding a place. I'm not sure how I did it. I used up the last of my money on the rent and deposit. Rent in Tokyo is freakin' expensive. I now had a month to make more money for rent and living expenses. No pressure, Williams.

The funny thing is, I didn't get to enjoy Tokyo at all. I was hustling my tail off. When I wasn't working on paying projects, I was working on the _Sarah gets her life in order_ plan. I barely slept.

The first thing I did was move all my assets into an international bank where everything could be done online. Then I opened checking, savings and retirement accounts. Then I automated everything, including my bills. Money would go where it needed to on a set schedule without me having to do a thing.

I wrote a schedule for paying off my debt. If I continued paying minimums, it would take me ten years to pay it off. I winced when I read that. But if I paid every _**week**_ instead of every _**month**_, I'd be debt free within the next year. I liked that very much, but I had to eat. I couldn't focus so much on my debt that I forgot about living expenses. _Simple answer: I need to make more money_.

_You could make a wish._ It was an innocent suggestion on the cusp of my subconscious.

I froze. _Where did __**that**__ thought come from?_

* * *

I don't believe in wishes. You only get what you work for, after all. So the simple conclusion to this story is that I busted my ass and recreated my income stream. I read a lot of books and taught myself how to get better clients. Within two months of my arrival in Japan, I'd quadrupled my income for web design, and I'd sold a painting to someone for the equivalent of $1,300 US.

I was pretty proud of myself. There's nothing quite as empowering as making money – not through a paycheck, but your own fingers.

A friend of a friend introduced me to a guy named Takeuchi, an older man who made his fortune designing plane engines. I guess Takeuchi took a liking to me, because he did pursue me for a while, but I wasn't interested. Things got a little crazy when he actually offered me money, and then I realized he was shopping for a mistress.

I'm not gonna lie, the idea was tempting for all of 0.2 seconds, but I said no. I didn't want to be owned by anybody. I had a plan for my life now, and I wasn't a princess in need of rescuing. I'd rescue myself just fine, thanks.

I'd calculated that I'd need a year to pay off my debt, if I could manage to keep to the repayment schedule. I ended up paying it all off within six months … and that was while stuffing my savings accounts and Roth IRA. I was debt-free and, for the first time in my life, I had steady income and a safety cushion.

Later that year, I was on a plane again.

* * *

I can't pinpoint any one instance that finally made me go back to New York. The morning after my 25th birthday (feted in a Moscow nightclub with some new friends), I realized I'd graduated college five years ago and hadn't been home since. Toby wasn't writing as much, but that's to be expected at his age. To be honest, I was glad he was out socializing and living his life.

Still, I missed him, and Karen and Dad. Merlin had passed away in my absence. I wondered if my parents had left my childhood bedroom untouched or if they'd rented it out. So much had changed. I was a little frightened of what I'd find if I returned home.

I suppose the event that swayed me was seeing that guy get hit. I was shopping in Izmaylovo Market when a bang reverberated like a gunshot. I thought a car was backfiring, but it was actually running over a man. I looked in time to see him bounce off the hood and flip over the roof while other pedestrians scrambled for cover. Somebody screamed. A child started crying.

Suddenly, I was just kneeling there and holding his hand. He was an older guy, maybe Dad's age, with thinning hair and a nose that was too big for his face, which was a pulpy mess. I knew right away that he wasn't going to make it, as if I could smell death on him, so I held his hand as a siren wailed too far away to do him any good. For some reason, the man kept calling me Anna, and then he told me that he couldn't see anything. I guess his optical nerve was shutting down, or however it works when people die. He looked scared.

"It's okay, I'm here," I told him in English.

"I'm sorry, Anna." He was apologizing to this Anna person a lot, and I wondered who she was, or if she'd know that this guy was never coming home. "Could you stay with me while I go?"

It was such a strange request. I wasn't an atheist, exactly, but I'd never really put much thought into what happens when people pass away. Now wasn't the time to be cynical, though. I squeezed his hand in reassurance and asked, "Is it still dark where you are?"

"Yes."

"Look for a light."

He was quiet for a long time, and I thought he might have died without me noticing. But then he said, "I see it."

"Okay. Walk toward it."

"Come with me, please."

You can't deny a dying person anything, right? So I said, "Okay, I'm walking there with you" and squeezed his hand again. He smiled, then, and it was such a peaceful smile that I smiled back at him for a few moments before I realized he was no longer breathing. I released his hand and closed his eyes. By then, the paramedics were rushing up and I got out of the way. I didn't stick around for questioning, just went in search of a bathroom to wash the blood off my hands. It wasn't until later that everything finally sank in, and I started shaking.

I called home that day. It was breakfast time in New York. Karen answered.

"Williams' residence, hello?"

"Karen? It's me."

"Sarah! So good to hear your voice. How are you?"

"Can I come home?"

Thank God, she didn't ask any questions or judge me. All she said was, "Of course, sweetheart." I was at the airport the next day.

* * *

I'd love to show you my apartment. It's this way. Don't mind the dog; she doesn't bite.

My place is small, but that suits me fine. I've lived in much worse. When you enter the front door, the first thing you'll notice is that the walls are painted buttery yellow and clusters of crystal hang from the ceiling. The crystal refracts all the light coming in the balcony windows and makes the place glow no matter what time of day.

Against one wall, three long bookshelves house my library. On the opposite wall sits a fat purple sofa and my keyboard, complete with foot pedals. I took up the piano after I returned from Russia. I had to trade in my old guitar because it got damaged going through customs in Prague. (Jerks!) The new guitar is a 12-string acoustic from Epiphone, whose guitars are only surpassed by Yamaha, in my opinion, and you can find it tucked away in a case next to the keyboard. I inherited the coffee table from the previous tenant. Right now it's covered with magazines.

Obviously, you've noticed the plants overflowing the room. I like plants, like feeling as if I'm outdoors even when I'm not. Paintings march slipshod across the walls - some of them mine, much of them not. I'm a big fan of Da Vinci and Klimt.

The tiny kitchen fits two people comfortably; any more than that feels like a sardine can. There's no dishwasher, which is a bummer, but it's an easy trade-off for the balcony. (Sorry, mind the dog again. She likes to hide under the table and trip people.) Anyway, the bathroom's through that door, if you need it. It has a deep bathtub and a nice view of the park.

Back to the living room. The door in the corner leads to my bedroom, where the walls are burnt orange. You can barely see them, though, because of all the art and magazine clippings. I've also taped up souvenirs from my travels: a feathered mask I made, concert ticket stubs, photographs. The mirror over my dresser is shaped like a sun, and jewelry hangs from some cork board. I've hung a diaphanous curtain around my bed for added privacy, even though I live alone.

All told, it's a cozy little den, this home of mine. I plan on hanging onto it for a while - a first in my adult life. I moved in a month after returning from Russia and spending a few weeks in my old bedroom.

Coming home was a shock; I felt like I didn't even fit in my old bed, and buying groceries using English was just bizarre. I initially felt like an outsider in my own country. Dad and Karen had more wrinkles around their eyes. I didn't recognize Toby, which hurt. Then again, my family barely recognized me. I didn't understand what they were talking about until I saw old photos of me in high school and college. I'm taller and thinner now, and I stand firmly erect, like a woman who's finally grown into her skin and in full control of her limbs.

I resisted grad school at first, given how poorly I did in school as a kid, but I have a career goal. Plus, college was way different from high school. Overall, I'd say it allows more wiggle room. I'd rather bury myself in a library and do research than sit in a classroom for eight hours a day. Grad school isn't so bad.

My apartment's four blocks from campus, and I'm late for a meeting with my adviser. I'm having a hard time moving my ass this morning. Disturbing dreams last night, though I can't remember them. I just know they were weird, and I awoke with my head at the foot of my bed and my feet on my pillow. I'd obviously been thrashing in my sleep.

Frankly, I can't remember the last time I slept well. An hour or two a night has been the norm since I was a teen. _Sarah, that's impossible, you'd be a basket case by now_ - yeah, I know. I don't get it either. Nobody does. The doctors blamed growth spurts until I was well into adulthood, until they could no longer blame hormonal changes. I take my insomnia in stride. When you can't sleep, you suddenly have an extra eight hours in your day. It's like gaining another life.

So while other humans sleep, I paint, or compose music, or read, or write stories, or roam the outdoors. Our world transforms at night. I like to find empty intersections and bask in their silence, as if I am the last woman on Earth. Nighttime silence is maddening. Terror, in some ways, resembles the cresting sensation that precedes orgasm, when you're not quite there yet and you fear that when you finally are, you may die. It's a bittersweet agony, this anticipatory fear, but it makes me curl my toes in a good way.

In these silent moments, staring down empty city streets where no other living thing roams, I feel like I have a taste of infinity.

My exes never could understand the insomnia, and my nocturnal wanderings always scared them. I learned early to curb my exploring whenever I entered a relationship, to pretend to sleep long enough so I could slip out of their arms and go create something new with my hands, or wander the world outside. In a way, being alone is a relief. There's never a need to hide.

* * *

Judy's an awesome adviser, as advisers go. Unlike my high school guidance counselor, Judy knows my full name, my fears, my ambitions in life ... basically, she sees me as a person, not a sheet of paper. We've gotten on like peas and carrots in the last year. Today she has a cluster of pencils sticking out of the bun in her hair and a pinched look that tells me she's run out of cigarettes. When I enter her cluttered office, she waves me into a chair while frowning at the unfortunate person on the other end of her phone.

"... I don't care what his excuse is, he didn't get permission from the board!" she barks. "Explain to me how a 4th year grad student doesn't understand the importance of approval before conducting experiments of questionable ethical merit ... That was a rhetorical demand, Eric, and you know it. Tell ... I don't care! Tell the little trigger-happy bastard to cease and desist all activity immediately until after the board meets next week, and that he should be grateful we don't expel him immediately! The last thing we need is someone suing the university because of one student's remarkably poor judgment ... Thank you, I will ... You, too. Bye."

When Judy finally looks in my direction, I make sure to wear an exceedingly sunny smile.

"Hello, Sarah," she says wearily, rubbing her temples. "Sorry about that. You wouldn't believe ... well, anyway, here we are." She rummages around her desk for a file. "How's your semester going?"

"Good," I say, and I mean it. "I'm loving Doctor Leffert's practicum on psychopathology." And I mean that, too.

Judy smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, I'm hearing wonderful feedback from Barbara about your work in her course, and your teaching the undergrads. I did, however, want to discuss your results from the final examination."

Oh, shit. Something bad just happened, I can tell. The final exam is the last hurdle before I can officially receive my Master's degree, before I can begin my PhD. I try to sound calm when I say, "Oh?", but I can feel the choke in the back of my throat.

"Yes, there's some ... concern about your command of the material. You didn't go nearly in depth as the other students, which makes me wonder how comfortable you feel with this program."

"I-" Jesus, how do I even respond to that? "I thought my answers were adequate."

"Some of them were adequate. Others included big holes. I must confess, I was a little disappointed with your answer regarding general issues with methodology. A 1st year student should have been able to tackle that one." She cocks her head. "Sarah, how have you been sleeping?"

I manage to restrain a laugh. "Is it obvious?"

Judy looks sad. "It feels sometimes like you're not fully present, as if you're simultaneously existing in another world, and your exam results certainly don't line up with what I know of you. You have one of the most brilliant, active minds I've ever met. You can do better than this. So it's made the committee wonder: was our judgment in letting you into this program a fluke?"

I suck in a breath.

"... or do you need to take care of your health?" she finishes.

"I've been an insomniac for years," I answer warily. "I ... I hope my admission into this program wasn't a fluke. I really want to be here."

"Hmm." Judy reclines in her chair and closes her eyes, thinking. I'm on pins and needles until she looks at me again. "Yes, I believe that you want to be here. Your love of learning is obvious. But you definitely need to look into your health. This is the beginning of your career, and it's only going to get more challenging from here. How can you keep up with its demands if you're already burning out?" Before I can gather my thoughts enough to answer, she hits me with another question: "How do you envision that career looking, Sarah?"

"What?"

"I mean, where do you see yourself? Truly? Do you really see yourself working in a private practice?"

I've had nightmares for years where I'm back in high school taking a final exam in a class I've never attended (usually ancient Egyptian algebra), I can't find my locker, and I'm naked. I'm experiencing a similar sense of dawning horror as I fidget in my chair. "I think so. I mean, I like people, and I like helping people, and I really like psychology."

"I see." There's a sense of finality in that statement that I don't like. When Judy picks up her pen, it might as well be an executioner's ax. "The official response is going out by mail this week, but you should know that the committee has decided that you'll need to resit your examination in order to qualify for your M.A."

**_Thunk._** I can feel my heart drop out of my ribs.

"And I think, Sarah, that you might want to do some soul-searching as to why you're in this program." If Judy yelled or was mean about this, I could easily get angry, but the look in her eyes is all sad concern. It's a look a mother would give a daughter. I think. "The PhD is a long haul, and frankly, if this isn't your passion, you might want to reconsider moving forward."

_**Damn.**_

But because I'm a professional, I nod and thank Judy for her time and attention, then I go home and eat ice cream. That night, I walk further than I've ever walked before. By the time I finally wind my way home, the sky is pink tinged with shots of gold. It's a beautiful sight, but I feel nothing.

* * *

The following night finds me at the Golden Rail Irish Pub, which has karaoke and the best pizza in New Brunswick. I mean, I haven't sampled every pizza in the city to make such a judgment call, but it's pretty darn good. At the moment, though, it tastes like sawdust. Shayna and Reimi are giving me worried looks that they think I don't notice. I'm glad to have friends who care, but right now it's a little hard to follow human conversation.

Something buzzes at my hip. I frown at my cell phone: it's Dad. Probably asking about me coming to dinner this weekend. I'll call him back.

"It's just an exam," Reimi says gently. "I mean, crap, when can you sit for it again? Six months? You'll totally be ready by then."

"I don't think it's that so much as Judy's concern about me going for the PhD," I sigh. Dad's buzzing me again. Annoyed, I mute my phone.

"Eh, she's a doubting Thomas. Screw her."

"No, it's a valid concern." I rub my temple, which is beginning to throb. There's a woman on stage mangling Metallica lyrics in time with the karaoke machine. "I don't know if I really see myself taking patients. When I first applied, I thought maybe I could, but after that internship at the hospital? Nah."

"Maybe a career in research?"

"Man, I hope so." I sop up tomato sauce with a bit of crust. "Otherwise, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing here."

Shayna turns away from watching the TV screen over the bar. She has a thick mane of blond hair and the sort of large, brown eyes that you could call "soulful". You'd expect her face to be on a billboard selling perfume, but Shayna's dream is building artificially intelligent machines. "Ain't nothing wrong with research! It's a good, solid career path ... but it's not your love," she finishes softly, seeing the look on my face.

I can't eat anymore of my pizza. "I don't know what it is I love. I don't know if there's anything I can see myself doing. Sometimes I don't feel like I belong in this world."

"You're weird," Reimi agrees. "You have the imagination of a preschooler. But you're smart, Sarah." _Maybe not the smartest person in the world, but perfectly average intelligence._ She doesn't say it, but it's written in her face. Reimi's sincere, if blunt. And she's right: I've always been smart enough to figure things out.

"Your brain scares me sometimes, though," she continues.

I laugh despite myself, not sure if I should be insulted. "How so?"

"I mean, you don't think like other people do. You barely passed classes in college, then learned languages on the street. Sitting in a cubicle scares you, but you have no qualms with showing up on my doorstep in Tokyo. You've sold fantasy paintings for enough money to cover my rent and you've lived on your own traveling the world. You make up stories out of your head like a little kid, and you can make adults believe them. I agree, I don't think you're of this world at all. You're either a superhuman or a changeling."

"Stop," Shayna chides her, then looks at me. "You're young. It's natural to not have all the answers, even about your career."

I smile ruefully. "You know what I wanted to do, when I was a kid? I just wanted to tell stories, all the time. Stick me in a room with an audience, and I could tell them stories for hours. That's all I wanted. But I don't think there's a career path for that."

"Published author?"

"Maybe. I'd have to dream up something publishable, first."

Reimi flashes a toothy grin. "Sarah, after all your adventures, I find it hard to believe you can't think up **_one_ **good publishable tale."

Have you ever read a story where the energy in the room suddenly shifts? It's the turning point for the hero, when destiny suddenly awakens from a long sleep, like a Titan. Everything shrinks to this pinprick moment, and everything changes. It feels like that now. The noise around us muffles as if we're wrapped in cotton, and without understanding why, I feel a little reckless. The last 48 hours have made me punchy, I guess.

"I have a story," I say. "A true one."

"Ooh," Reimi coos, and even Shayna smiles, amused. "Swashbuckling adventure?"

I can't see my face, but I know I'm wearing a devilish grin. "Yes. I've never told it to another living soul."

"Oooooooh!" Reimi leans in. "Well, don't leave us hanging!"

Jesus, here goes. _Williams is going to the looney bin for sure._

"Once upon a time, back when my dad and step-mother first got married, after my brother was born, I was kind of a brat." I give a theatrical flourish that makes my audience of two giggle. "I didn't want to share my father, and I still resented my mother leaving us. I didn't want this new family. So one night, I got tired of babysitting Toby, and I made a terrible wish. I read so many stories in those days - adult books as well as fairy tales - and I had such an overactive imagination. It was so bad that Karen would scold me for playing make-believe in my room instead of going out on dates."

Shayna chuckles. Reimi is grinning her usual lopsided smile.

"That night, I lost all patience, and I wished for the goblins to take my brother away forever." _Say your right words, the goblins said. _"I ... I held him up high while a storm raged outside and yelled for the goblins to take him. It was a bratty teenager's rebellion. I didn't expect it to work. I put Toby down and went to leave - he was crying by then - and I knew something was wrong when I got out the bedroom door and suddenly he stopped crying. I ran back to his crib, and he was gone."

I rub my eyes. Now that I'm speaking about it, the memories are spilling back, memories I've forgotten for a decade overrunning my consciousness. "Things in the room started moving, little shadows darting past, always in the corner of my eye. Goblins. Real ones. Then the window flew open and this ... this **_man_ **stood there, but he was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen in my life. He clearly wasn't human. He wore this ... black armor and leather. There was something wrong with his eyes, and whenever he moved, glitter filled the room. I wasn't sure if **_he_ **was a goblin, because goblins are so small and ugly, and he clearly wasn't any of those things. But I knew right away that this had to be the Goblin King, and I was terrified. Toby was gone and I knew that the goblins really had taken him."

Shayna and Reimi aren't smiling now. They're looking at me with something approaching alarm. Do I give up now, pretend I'm playing a practical joke? Maybe I should. Except I can't. I've begun telling this tale for the first time and the words are hastening to be told, as if they're fighting to escape my mouth.

"So I said to him ... I said to him, please, bring my brother back." _What's said is said._ "That I hadn't meant any of it." _Oh, you didn't?_ "I begged him. I said that Toby would be so scared. I suddenly regretted being such a bitch. I think I finally realized that I'd taken out all my anger from Mom onto the only family I had left, and that I had an enormous responsibility now to someone else in the same way she'd had with me, and that I couldn't fail Toby the same way Mom had failed me, you know? He was just a baby.

"But this man, this king-" _I've brought you ... a gift._ "-he just blew me off." _It's a crystal. Nothing more._ "But finally I convinced him to let me try to get Toby back." _But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams._ "He made the world around us change, and suddenly I was in another place, on a hill overlooking a labyrinth. He said I'd have to run it, like a contender in a race, and that I had thirteen hours to get through it and to his castle, or else I'd lose ..." Horrified, I can feel tears threatening. "... I'd lose Toby forever.

"So I accepted the challenge and I ran the labyrinth and the short answer is, I won. I beat him at his own game and I rescued Toby and we got to go home." But there was something else, wasn't there? Something uncomfortable, something I hadn't understood. What was ...?

"He made me an offer. I think he made me several offers, actually." _I ask for so little._ "I can't remember. It's all so fuzzy. But I think he was hitting on me." _Just let me rule you, and you can have everything that you want._ "I didn't understand it, I was only fifteen. But he wanted me to stay with him." _Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave._ "When I beat his labyrinth, I destroyed his world, actually physically destroyed it. I don't think anyone had ever beaten him before. It shocked him. And in the end, he begged me to forget about Toby and stay with him, but I ignored all of that and defeated him anyway.

"Anyway, I've had this false memory rattling around in my head for the last ten years and I can't account for it. It's the most realistic waking dream ever. Sometimes I worry about my sanity. It's the driving reason behind why I decided to study psychology in the first place, not because I actually want to help patients. I'm desperate to figure out what's going on inside my own head. Nothing more."

As soon as I finish, the excited passion leaves me and I slump, exhausted, like a woman who's just given birth. All that, bottled up inside me for a decade, now out of me. The relief is electrifying.

Then I see Shayna and Reimi's faces, and a lump forms in my throat. Shayna looks disbelieving; Reimi actually looks terrified. For a long, unbearable moment, I fear the world is going to break apart ... and then Shayna beams and says, "Goddamn, Williams, you need to add acting to your repertoire. That was incredible."

I smile shakily. Reimi glances at Shayna, uncertain, but she allows a nervous grin. "Jesus, you had **_me_ **fooled!" she exclaims. "I seriously thought you were cracking up."

"Ha," I reply. I don't know what else to say.

"I mean, _**Jesus**._" Reimi laughs and runs her hands through her hair. The tense energy at the table vanishes, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "You need to write that down and publish it, Sarah. Or perform it onstage, or something. Where'd you get the idea for this Goblin King? He sounds like a kinky bastard."

I still can't talk, so I just shrug and flutter my hands in what I hope will be taken for a carefree gesture.

"Damn. I need a drink. Beer, Shayna? Sarah? Oh, that's right, Sarah, you don't drink. Hey, Craig!" she shouts at the bartender. "Two beers for me and Shayna, and a Safe Sex on the Beach for our girl Sarah, here." The beers arrive as soon as she's ordered them, and Reimi immediately raises hers to me with her toothy grin. "To great story-telling!"

_But it wasn't a story._ It's a real delusion I've been having for the last decade. Suddenly, I want to throw up. _It's probably time to pack it in and go home._

I pull out my phone to check the time and immediately frown. 17 missed calls? **_17?_** They're all from the last quarter of an hour, while my phone was on silent. Nervous, I pull up the history, and my anxiety spikes: Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Karen, Toby, Dad. _Something's wrong. _I begin to dial home when I catch the horrified look on Reimi's face. Confused, I turn and look where she's looking. To where the entire crowd is looking. At the TV set over the bar.

A news chopper is flying over a house. No, a mansion. Red ticker tape rolling across the bottom lets us know that somewhere, something extremely bad and extremely important has happened. "Turn it up!" somebody yells. The bartender scrambles for the remote, and suddenly sound bellows from the TV.

"-on the scene. Police have identified the victim as Linda Young, star of stage and screen, and widely considered one of the best actors of her generation. Initial reports indicate suicide." The screen abruptly cuts to a crying woman with curly hair and a lisp. Off-screen, reporters shove microphones into her face and blind her with camera flashes.

"I knocked once," the woman mumbles, "but she didn't answer, so I go in, and there she is on the bed."

"Was Ms. Young alone?"

"Yes." The woman wipes at her face. The tears are openly falling now. "I was there for her massage appointment, but she ... she wasn't answering her phone. When I went in, she was just lying there with bottles of wine. At first, I thought she was passed out, but then I saw the pills, and the note."

The screen cuts to the iron bars flanking a driveway, covered with yellow tape. On the street, onlookers hug each other, cry, hold candles. The voice-over continues: "The death of Linda Young has already sent shock waves through Hollywood and the world."

The camera cuts to the crowd of mourners. "She was my idol," sobs a woman.

"I remember seeing her in _The Last Hustle_," says a man. "I think that was her first major role. I was blown away. It was like watching Al Pacino the first time you saw _The Godfather_. You knew you were watching the beginning of something real special, something for the history books. I can't believe she's gone."

The camera jumps to the face of a famous director, who's obviously trying to escape the crush of reporters. "I don't know what to say. I just heard about it. I'm devastated. I think everyone is. Linda was my muse. I'm sorry, I ... I can't do this."

Another cut, this time to an older man in uniform behind a podium. "At approximately 4 PM, our department received a call reporting a death at the residence in question. Officers arrived to find the deceased alone in the master bedroom, where she was quickly identified as the actress, Linda Young. Officers immediately quarantined the scene to begin an investigation. The Los Angeles medical examiner's office was contacted, and responded; an autopsy is scheduled for today. The L.A.P.D. is asking anyone who might have further information to please come forward."

Another cut, back to the studio. Two news anchors with perfectly-coiffed hair shake their heads and pretend to look grim. "Absolutely tragic," says one. "Linda Young's career spanned twenty-five years, forty films and six Broadway productions, and enjoyed a box office draw that rivaled those of colleagues like Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp. Only time will tell what mark her untimely passing will leave on the rest of us."

My feet may as well be nailed to the floor, and I'm clutching the phone in both hands as if it's my only hope for salvation. "Oh. Fuck."

* * *

_To be continued._


	5. Time out of joint

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the makers of "Labyrinth". There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,_  
_That ever I was born to set it right!_

- Hamlet, Act 1, scene 5

* * *

_Sometimes I don't feel like a person at all. I'm just a collection of other people's ideas._

-David Bowie in a 1972 interview with Ingenue magazine

* * *

Time is more malleable than we think. When I witnessed that man run over by a car in Moscow, time even seemed to stop. As I stand there in the bar, frozen, listening to CNN inform me about my own mother's suicide, I feel as if I've entered an alternate reality where time is negligible altogether, where I don't have a body, don't have a brain, don't even exist. But I must exist, because I can distinctly hear three separate voices inside my head, as if I've split into three different people.

The first voice is saying: _My mother is dead. Oh, my God, my mother is dead._

And the second voice is saying: _The first voice is saying: My mother is dead. Oh, my God, my mother is dead._

And the third voice says nothing. It just screams and screams and screams.

* * *

Shayna is hustling me out the door. It's hard to move my legs. I think I've just banged my shin on something, but I don't really feel it. A part of me registers a sensation that my brain tells me is pain, but it's an unimportant footnote. We step outside and Reimi is running for the car. There are seven people standing on the sidewalk, smoking. Seven. Two plus two plus two plus one.

One of them, a drunk girl in a miniskirt, squints at me and says, "Hey, anybody ever tell you, you look like Linda Young?"

Shayna is saying something to the girl. I think she's telling her to piss off, because the girl calls Shayna a stupid bitch. It starts to rain. I can't feel my hands. Reimi's car screeches up to the curb, and Shayna pushes me into the back seat and jumps in next to me. I'm mumbling, "My phone. My purse."

"Don't worry, I got them." Shayna hands me my stuff. My hands are shaking so bad that I drop the phone and she has to search for it on the floor. Time has slowed down even more than I thought. We should be back at my apartment by now, but Reimi hasn't even made it to the next block. I can see her mouth moving in the rear-view mirror, but I can't make sense of anything she's saying.

After five years, Shayna finally finds my phone, but instead of giving it back to me, she makes a call on it. "Hi, Robert? It's Shayna. I - yeah, we have Sarah ... Yeah, we just found out ... No, she's kind of in shock right now. Should we bring her to your house? ... Okay, we're about an hour away. No worries, we got this."

My mouth moves. "Boudica."

"Huh?"

"Boudica's at home. We need to pick her up." I want my dog. I want my dog. I want my dog.

"Roger that, Captain," Reimi says from the driver's seat. The trip home is agony. I live fifteen minutes from the bar on most days, but tonight it takes a million years. By the time we finally roll into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I want to leap out of the moving vehicle. Instead I slowly open my door and climb out on India rubber legs, totally forgetting my purse and phone (again), and Shayna has to bring them to me (again). We take the elevator up to the fourth floor in total silence, and we remain quiet as we walk down the hall to my front door and through my front door and Boudica bounds up to me woofing exuberantly and I can't believe my apartment looks so different in the span of just three hours since I left it. Three hours ago, my mother was alive, and now she's not.

As soon as I enter the apartment, I drop everything in my hands and plop onto the floor and hug Boudica, who tries to lick my nose right off my face. I respond by burying my nose in the scruff of her neck and she, perhaps sensing that something is wrong, stops wiggling and lets me hug her.

Reimi speaks softly beside me. "Sarah, do you want to pack a bag?"

I finally look up at them both. Sensation has reentered my limbs, and it's easier now to focus on people's faces. "I don't even want to leave. Not tonight. I don't think I could stand another car ride right now."

Shayna is about to say something, but a look from Reimi silences her. "Do you want us to stay? We can sleep in here."

"I ... I don't want to inconvenience you guys."

"Sarah," Shayna says, "of course it wouldn't." The lump in my throat has returned, and I can only nod.

* * *

While Reimi and Shayna brush their teeth, I barricade myself in my room to make a difficult phone call. "Dad?"

"Oh, honey." My father sounds so remarkably sad, and I ache for him. He loved Mom once, too. "You heard?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, you were trying to call me and I ..."

"I'm sorry, too. I got the call shortly before the networks did. I wanted to reach you before you saw the TV, but I didn't make it in time." Dad hesitates. "How're you doing, Pumpkin?"

"They're saying she killed herself."

"Yes. It sounds like they have to do an autopsy first, but so far it looks like suicide."

"That's so typical of Mom. She never did think of anyone but herself."

There's an anxious pause, but then Dad replies, "I'm afraid that's an accurate assessment."

"The funny thing is? We spoke on the phone a few years ago and I told her, I told her she's an alcoholic and that it would kill her. Was an alcoholic, I mean. She wouldn't hear it. And the funny thing is, it might not have been alcohol anyway, but pills, and it was intentional. I was so off."

"Your mother made a lot of bad choices, Sarah, not just with the drinking, or even the affair. It's why the marriage failed. I ... we never really spoke about it, you and I. After all, she was still your mother, and I didn't want to speak poorly of her to you."

"I appreciate that, Dad. But I've known for years that she's a poisonous person. No sense pretending otherwise, I guess." I can hear Reimi laughing in the bathroom, and Boudica barking. I bite my lip and tap my foot against the headboard of my bed. "Watching the news was surreal. Everybody in America is grieving this idol they've built up in their heads. It's like nobody knew the real Linda Young but us."

"Your mother was an incredibly charming woman, Sarah. That's what a narcissist does best."

I flinch. "You think Mom was a narcissist? Like, real, bona fide narcissistic personality disorder?"

"I had my suspicions. None of it really matters now, I don't think."

"Guess not."

"Will you attend the funeral?"

"I ... God, I guess there'll be a funeral, won't there?"

"Yes, and unless she's changed her will since we divorced, there's a distinct possibility she'll be buried in New York. If so, I imagine the funeral will be here instead of L.A." Dad pauses. "Of course, if you want to go, we'll go together. Strength in numbers and all that."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Any time, sweetheart. Are you coming here tonight?"

"No, I think I'm going to stay home. I just need to be alone."

"I understand. Let's touch base tomorrow, alright?"

"Okay. Love you, Daddy."

* * *

Reimi crashes the couch and Shayna curls up on the living room rug with some of my spare bed linens. I can hear them breathing from my bedroom, and I know this because that night I don't even get my usual one hour of sleep. I don't sleep at all, just stare at the ceiling and count every crack I can find (five), then recount them again and again while Boudica snuffles in her sleep next to me. I could be out walking, or reading, getting something done, doing something with my hands, but my friends are here and I have to stay in this bed. Probably for the best. In my current state, it's not a good idea to be out walking around. I'd walk into traffic and not even realize it.

Two days ago, my future was planned out perfectly and everything made sense. Now, nothing does.

* * *

I heard a comedian make a great joke once about the brother of Jesus Christ - the joke being that, of course, nobody ever remembers the brother of Jesus Christ. That's remarkably what it feels like being the daughter of a celebrity. For years, Mom viewed me as an extension of herself, a chip off the old block, a doll for her to dress up and show off to her famous friends. After she abandoned us, I could never quite escape her influence. As I entered puberty, even total strangers felt the need to comment on how much I resembled that famous woman in that movie, which is why to this day, Reimi and Shayna are some of the only people who even know who my mother really is.

For this reason, the next week is pure hell. The life and death of Linda Young remains fodder for every newspaper in the country, and nobody will stop talking about it: not my classmates, not my Starbucks barista, not my Facebook feed. I'm almost completely alone in my grief. What can I say? Thank God, I have several months before I have to worry about resitting my qualification exam. Right now, remembering to tie my shoes is about all the responsibility I can handle.

The following Tuesday, I'm leaving my Psychopathology class when my phone buzzes. Alarmed, I answer it without even checking to see who it is. "Hello?"

"Hello, may I please speak with Sarah Williams?"

"Speaking?"

"Ms. Williams, my name is Janice Li. I'm an attorney with Johnson, Shaw & Sanders, representing the estate of Linda Christine Young. Is now a good time to talk?"

My stomach burns a fist up into my lungs. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Um, can you hold on just a second?"

"Of course."

I hurry away from the doors leading into the Psychology department and find an empty bench, far away from the crowd of students filtering in and out of the building. When I finally sit, I pull my hair up into a ponytail and give my face a few reassuring pats before I pick the phone back up. "Okay. Sorry about that, um, Janice. So ... So, you're calling on behalf of my mom?"

"Yes. I'm terribly sorry about the passing of your mother, and I know you probably have a lot going on. My job is to make this process go as smoothly and quickly as possible for you."

"Okay."

"Ms. Williams, I've been appointed the executor of your mother's will, which asked that our office contact you in the event of her death and let you know that her funeral will take place in her home town of Upper Nyack, New York." That's also my home town. I blink. Dad was right, Mom's not being buried in L.A. "You should also know that you are her sole beneficiary."

"What?"

"She's left her entire estate to you."

The birds outside are singing awfully loud today. For a minute, their chirping is all I can hear. Then, finally, I stutter, "Isn't there supposed to be a reading of the will or something?"

"That's usually just in movies. Very few probate lawyers do that anymore, literacy rates being what they are nowadays. You'll receive an official letter in the mail, but since I'm telling you about her upcoming funeral, I may as well tell you now that you're her sole heir."

This can't be real. I don't want anything of Mom's, don't want anything of hers in my life. Not her property, not her money, not her name. But because I can't think of anything else to say, I reply, "Okay."

"Do you have a pen? I can give you the name of the funeral home handling your mother's burial."

"When is the funeral?"

"Saturday. Ready?"

I fish through my backpack for a pen and uncap it so fast that the cap falls into the grass somewhere where I can't find it. Without pausing, I pull out a notebook and flip it open. "Ready."

"It's Phillip L. Hull Funeral Home, (555) 555-3498. Ask for Mr. Louis Starkweather. The service begins Saturday at 10 o'clock, and the presiding priest will be Father Joseph Di Alberto of Saint Anne's. She's to be buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Tarrytown, New York."

"... so, she's getting a Catholic service?"

"Yes, it was your mother's wish."

"I thought ... I mean ..."

"In recent years, the Catholic church has eased its stance on burial for suicide victims." Ms. Li's voice is very gentle. "Most parishes now leave the decision up to the local priest without having to go through the archbishop for approval. Father Di Alberto has decided to grant your mother's wish, and he will officiate at the funeral."

The lump makes a return to my throat. It's been very difficult speaking, the last few days. I nod my head until I realize that Ms. Li can't see me, so I finally say, "Okay, great. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss Williams. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to call our office."

When I hang up, I stare at the phone for a moment, feeling as if I've just been dragged over broken glass. Then I decide to bypass lunch and head early to the General Psychology class I teach. I spend the next thirty minutes sitting in a daze until my students filter in. The noise they're making might as well be the excited chirping of the birds I just heard outside - nothing they say makes much sense. I never realized before how young they look. They're not much younger than me, but suddenly they look like babies.

I shake myself off and focus on the fifty faces looking my way. "Okay, welcome back, everyone. Today, let's continue with last week's discussion on basic neuroanatomy ..."

Most everyone by now has settled into their seats, but a boy named Bauer, sitting in the front row, jabbers away to a friend. People shuffle around in their chairs, so the hall is noisy, but I can still catch the tail end of Bauer's monologue. "-fucking killed herself. What a waste. I rented _Judgment Day_ this weekend, the one where she has that sex scene and holy shit, her **_tits_**-" To drive his point home, he's gesturing with his hands before his chest.

"Michael!" I snap. "Shut up."

Every head in the lecture hall jerks to attention, even the kids trying to hide the fact that they're hungover. "Damn," someone mutters. Bauer sinks into his chair and glowers at me. I stare him down until he looks at the floor and zips his trap.

I turn my attention to the rest of the room. "Let's be clear about something: when I am speaking in this classroom, you are not. If you want to pay tuition just to dick around, do it on your own time, **_not_ **mine or your classmates'. Also, I'd like to point out that you are entering a field that studies the human condition. Although you will be analyzing data, make no mistake that at day's end, what you are really studying are people - people with dreams, fears, problems, people who suffer just as you do. If compassion and basic human decency are too difficult for you, you will not like this field and I guarantee that I will not like you, and I'm the one who controls your grade. Save yourself the time and save me the aggravation of your bullshit and get the hell out of my class."

Nobody moves. Nobody even breathes. I'm looking at a room full of mannequins. Outside, the sky has turned black, and thunder growls.

My eyes flicker to Bauer. "Show some respect for the dead."

Bauer's mouth is practically trailing on the floor. He nods once, eyes the size of dinner plates.

When I tell everyone to turn to page 290, every textbook in the room snaps open like ranks of soldiers reporting for role call. That day, no one falls asleep in my classroom.

* * *

When we arrive at the cemetery, the trees are overflowing with fat white blossoms. Despite the chill in the air that spring, the sun today is warm on my face. Toby won't stop fidgeting; he's not used to wearing a tie. When we exit Karen's sedan, I unconsciously slip my hand into his, and my little brother looks up at me questioningly and squeezes my fingers in reassurance.

"It's going to be okay. I'm here," he whispers. His face shines with the sort of youthful optimism I haven't seen in the mirror in who knows how long, and I suddenly envy him. I'm only twenty-seven, but I feel as if I've aged a thousand years. I'm suddenly reminded of that sketch I drew when I first arrived in Tokyo, that drawing of the Goblin King looking thoroughly worn out, as if he'd just been resurrected into a strange new world.

"Thank you, Toby," I whisper back. When I smile at him, it's genuine. I love this smart, sensitive, handsome boy so much.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and the surrounding town are most well-known in American culture for a late 18th century gothic tale by Washington Irving called _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. If you're American, you've probably heard of it. If you're a New Yorker, you've definitely heard of it. Tim Burton made a movie once about the Headless Horseman and Ichabod Crane, but he filmed it on constructed sets. The actual village of Tarrytown is a quaint place with shops and bike paths, and the cemetery itself is charming in its own way. Many of the graves date back to the 1600s, though people are still being buried on the property. It's right over the river from Upper Nyack. I used to take long walks there all the time in high school. I never thought I'd be burying my mother there.

The funeral procession from Saint Anne's, mostly black limousines, looks like a line of ants. Our family pauses for a moment outside the car to watch as the other vehicles line up at the curb. Karen takes that moment to fix Dad's tie and whisper something in his ear. He nods at her, unsmiling, and glances in my direction.

I nod encouragingly back. "I'm okay, Pop."

"Good. Toby, you'll escort your sister there?" He's already got Karen on his arm.

Toby bucks up. "Yessir."

"Off we go, then."

We pick our way through the rows of gravestones, aware that we're followed by dozens of famous strangers and, although it's been discouraged, paparazzi. Chairs have been arranged at the plot, and we take some in the front row. As the other guests filter in, I try not to stare. The funeral is a Who's Who from _People_ magazine. I spot a director, a fitness guru, at least three actresses, an action film star from the 1980's, and an aging rocker whose albums I've all collected.

Tellingly, Jeremy is not in attendance. I read up on the news years ago in high school when he and Mom split. I wonder what, or who, he's doing now.

The pallbearers arrive with the coffin and arrange it on the platform that will winch it down into the plot. I stare at the polished lid in disbelief. Everything my mother did, everything my mother was, is now reduced to this.

Father Di Alberto looks like he would feel just at home on a sound stage as in a church. He's a handsome older man with a robust speaking voice, and he gives a long speech that I don't pay attention to. I'm too busy staring at the blossoms in the trees and trying to ignore the curious glances from all the celebrities around me. A reality TV starlet I read about in a _People_ article last year (some sex tape scandal) nudges her girlfriend, and both actually turn in their seats to stare at me. I know I share a strong resemblance with Mom - some would say I'm the spitting image of her - so I know that everybody's noticed me. For a bunch of actors, they sure suck at pretending to hide it. When the priest finishes talking, I exhale in a burst. We're that much closer to being done with this side-show.

"Would anyone like to say a few words?" Father Di Alberto asks.

Several people stand up to give speeches - most of them brief, a few long and rambling and (I suspect) fueled by one too many cocktails. All of them are effusive with their praise. My mother was brilliant, talented, fabulous, a great friend, a gem, a professional. We will never see another person like her in a million years. Hollywood has lost one of its best treasures.

Father Di Alberto glances in my direction. "Does anyone else wish to say anything?"

_Oh, God. Oh, God, don't do this to me._ I frantically shake my head. The priest raises an eyebrow but quickly redirects his attention to the crowd. "Very well." He nods at a pallbearer, who pulls a lever and begins lowering the coffin. Once it's fully nestled in the earth, the crowd stands to filter past and throw in roses and handfuls of dirt. Then it's done. I've fulfilled my obligation as a dutiful daughter, and I can go home and get away from these cameras.

"I'm sorry, excuse me, but you're Linda's daughter, aren't you?"

I'm suddenly looking into the eyes of the famous director. He looks smaller in real life. I'm actually taller than he is. Unreal. His movies scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. I can't believe I'm now standing here talking to him.

I nod. "Yes, I am. I'm Sarah." He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. "... and I definitely know who you are."

He chuckles softly. "Yes, well, that. I'm very sorry about your mother. You must know that she was an amazing woman."

"Yeah, a lot of people have told me that."

"I hear you're a painter."

"I do paint, yes."

"I'd be interested in seeing your work sometime. I think a lot of people would."

I'm aware that my family is waiting behind me, that the crowd is watching, that paparazzi are clicking away at us from their hiding spots in the trees. "Thank you for your kindness, sir, but I have no interest in riding on my mother's coat-tails."

He blinks, then laughs. "I don't, either. I don't have time for nepotism, especially when there's no talent to back it up. But I saw your work showcased down at Rutgers last year, and I didn't even realize you and Linda were related until she told me. You've got a wonderful eye. I think a lot of people would appreciate it." Before I can do anything, say anything, he's produced a card and held it out to me with two fingers. "Let me know the next time you have a show. I'd like to see what you're selling."

In my travels, I've come to develop a keen ability to read people. I sense no maliciousness in his expression or voice, no lust, nothing unsavory or sarcastic. After a beat, we seem to come to an understanding, and I nod and take his card. He beams.

Toby squeezes my elbow. "C'mon, let's go home."

My brother leads me back through the cemetery, and I don't turn around, not once, aware of the rapid-fire_ click-whir_ of dozens of cameras waiting for me to do so.

* * *

What do you do when something you've loathed for so long suddenly leaves your life? Where would Luke Skywalker be without Darth Vader? Jean Val Jean without Inspector Javert? The best stories exist because of the antagonists. Without conflict, there's no story, only peace. I've lived so long without peace that the sudden quiet leaves me feeling lost, like a lifeboat adrift at sea long after the rest of the ship has gone down.

On some level, I suppose, I thought that perhaps one day Mom would see the error of her ways and we'd have a teary reunion that'd be the envy of the Academy. Her death has put the kibosh on that dream. Her suicide offers a solid ending, but no closure. There never will be closure.

By the time we return to the house, Toby has already peeled off the tie and jacket and half-wiggled out of his dress shirt. He runs up the front walk to the door whooping, waving the tie over his head like a victory flag. As my parents and I follow him into the house, my phone buzzes.

"Hello?" I answer, steeling myself.

"Hi, Ms. Williams? It's Janice Li. Got a moment?"

"I do. Why are you calling on a Saturday?"

She chuckles. "I work all hours, I'm afraid. I wanted you to know that the toxicology results will take another few weeks, but the LAPD has released to us a copy of your mother's final note. We're authorized to give you a copy, if you want to see it."

"Yes," I say without hesitation. I must want to torture myself. I give Ms. Li the fax number in Dad's home office, and when we hang up, I dash into the house like I'm racing in a roller derby. By the time I burst into the office, the fax machine has already lit up and is spitting out a sheaf of paper.

It's a long suicide note. Six pages. Mom really put time and effort into this. (_But she couldn't call someone for help?_) She has - I mean, had - beautiful script. Hassan would have loved it. I skim the letter like a starving person wolfing down bread, then frown and reread the letter slowly. By the time I'm done, I'm just confused.

"Hey, Dad?" I stick my head out the door. "C'mere a sec?"

Dad has ditched the jacket and loosened the tie and looks more comfortable. When he walks in, he's rubbing his face. "What's up, Pumpkin?"

"The attorneys for Mom's estate have sent me her suicide note," I begin, and immediately wish I'd framed that differently, because Dad tenses up. "It ... it doesn't make any sense."

"Hmm." Dad takes the papers from me and reads. He's silent for a very long time, and I begin to nervously play with the paperweight on his desk. By the time he's done reading, Dad looks drained, and I feel guilty for having dragged him into this. I should have told Ms. Li: _No, please burn the letter and don't let that damned thing anywhere near my family._

"There's no mention of you, me, any of her family or friends, nothing," I mumble. "It's all just her, her, her, and how she perceives the world has wronged her. No regrets, no taking responsibility for anything, nada. It's like the world literally began and ended with her."

"In her mind, it did," Dad says. Without warning, he leaves the office with the letter in hand and I, too startled to say anything, trail after him like a lost puppy. Wood smoke teases my nose; Dad's started a fire in the living room fireplace. When we reach it, he crumples a page up into a ball and tosses it into the flames. There's satisfaction in the way he throws it. Then he turns and offers me the rest of the letter. I take it from him and begin to crumple and toss pages with an exaggerated air. Pretty soon, the entire letter is going up in smoke.

My father and I share little smirks, like we're mischievous children on the playground instead of dad and daughter. Burning the letter is akin to an exorcism, and I suddenly feel much lighter.

* * *

Before I leave that evening, Toby runs out to me and my car, huffing, and hands me my phone. I hadn't even noticed it vanish from my purse, the little sneak. "Toby, why did you take this?"

"I had to download music on there for you," he wheezes. "Music always makes me feel better, so I gave you some of my favorites."

I scroll through my playlist and have to bite back a laugh. He's uploaded all of Metallica's greatest hits. Toby's going into eighth grade next year, and he's developing a love of metal that I can tell is going to challenge our parents' bank account. As I struggle to keep a straight face, Toby solemnly flips me the horns. "I also put Iron Maiden on there for you, and Black Label Society, and Chicken Foot, and Steve Vai, and Skid Row. Only the good stuff. Um, do you like it?"

"Like it? I love it. You're the best brother ever." I squash him in a hug and kiss his cheek.

"Ughhh, no kisses." He wipes his face and looks disgusted, but I can tell he's pleased. "Anyway, I gotta go. Dave and Josh are waiting for me at the high school. We're gonna practice our heelflips." He indicates the skateboard under his arm.

I smile. "Have fun, little brother." We hug again and I bundle into my car, where Boudica is woofing anxiously in the back seat. Time to go home and focus on creating the rest of my life ... whatever that is.

It's an hour and a half from Upper Nyack to New Brunswick. The way I drive, I squeeze by in just under an hour. By the time I pull into my apartment complex, the street lights have come on, and I can smell the neighbors cooking something delicious. Boudica is wiggling to go to the bathroom, so I take her on a quick walk around the block before I check my mailbox. Two bills, a letter from my college begging its alumni for donations, the official letter from Johnson, Shaw & Sanders with the details about Mom's will, and the official letter from the Psychology Department at Rutgers University telling me how much I suck taking tests. Coming on the tail end of a day that began with a funeral, the whole thing's almost comical.

I read my mail as we enter my apartment. I drop Boudica's leash as we walk in the door and she immediately bolts for her doggy bed and rolls around on it to make sure it still stinks of urine. Doggy priorities. There's a voicemail I missed on my phone from Reimi. I listen to it with half an ear while I put a pot of tea on to boil.

Then I notice the letter on the kitchen table.

For a split second, I wonder if I've accidentally put down some of my mail without paying attention, but the letter is completely unlike the mail in my hands. _**This** _letter is sheathed in a large, cream-colored envelope that's nearly translucent. It's propped against the salt and pepper shakers, waiting. Across the front, someone's written words in a flowing, fancy scrawl that you don't see anymore outside of movies about 18th century Europe. I have to squint before I can read it, and when I do, I'm surprised to discover my own name: _Sarah Williams_.

I flip the envelope over: a blob of bright red wax closes the flap. Someone has set a seal into the wax. The design looks like a stylized infinity loop within a ring. Very official-looking.

Boudica grunts happily as she wiggles around on her bed. I drop the rest of the mail on the floor and quickly inspect the bedroom and bathroom, but no one else is here. We're alone. The only other person with a key to my apartment is the landlord, and she wouldn't come in here even if the oven blew up. (And it has.)

I locked up before I left yesterday. I know I did. Nothing else in my place has been disturbed. _What the hell?_

I run a nail along the flap to slice the envelope open, and something colorful and shiny immediately fills the air. Glitter. Lots of it, along with an aroma I can't place, a very earthy, masculine cologne. Maybe Cypress and Vanilla, and something else that might be Oud. Hassan used Oud in his shop - it's smokey, deeply woody, and a bit sweet in an intriguing way. It reminds me of Patchouli or Birch Tar, but Oud is far too complex for that. I never did learn the English word for it; maybe Hassan didn't know it. The Japanese called it Jinko, and I once found a store in Macao selling it under the name Cham Heong. In its natural form, it's a dense, dark resin with an unparalleled aroma that makes it prized from Europe to Asia for incense and perfumes. Today, its rarity makes it ridiculously expensive. You don't find it often, not unless you consult a merchant who specializes in it, for a hefty fee.

Despite myself, I take a deep whiff. Yeah, definitely Oud. I can't believe it.

The letter inside is written on vellum which, again, I've never seen outside of movies. The letter's script matches that on the envelope, and I have to stare for a moment to figure out what it says.

* * *

_Dearest Sarah,_

_I hope you will extend me the courtesy of reading this letter. It is not my usual habit to annoy strangers with my correspondence, but we are not strangers, are we? You were one of the few mortals to believe in me in this modern age. Perhaps you still do. In any case, once upon a time, you believed in me enough to call upon me, and I came, and I was so charmed by your faith and your imagination that I decided to grant you a gift._

_You rejected it, of course, or you thought you did, but the truth is that you did receive a gift whether you were conscious of it or not. You wanted a quest, and a solution to your brother problem, so I happily obliged. I took the babe and gave you your adventure, and in return, you defeated my Labyrinth and pulled my world down piece by piece. In the end, you got a brother who you suddenly appreciated and adored, and an experience that helped you grow up. I hope you have found these things to your liking._

_For years, I resented your victories. Now, however, I have run out of time for grudges. The fact of the matter is, I pray you have not come to resent me as I long resented you, and I hope you can understand that all I ever did was by your leave and for your happiness. I am bound by certain laws that even I cannot circumvent. If I could do this in person, I would, but you have not called upon me, so I cannot. Therefore, let this letter convey my most sincere apologies and a profound wish for a happy life for you and all you hold dear._

_I have heard it said by beings far cleverer than myself that sometimes the best gift one can give is forgiveness. At the risk of sounding arrogant: perhaps you have not spent another moment thinking of me since you left my world, but in the event that you have, and have felt any regret for anything you did, I would tell you that I forgive you, and if I lost you, at least the world above has gained an artist with a creative eye so lovely that the gods themselves would weep in shame at the beauty of your vision. If I was to be bested, at least it was by the best._

_Your servant,_

_Jareth Rex_

* * *

I read the letter once. Twice. By the third time, the tears are coursing down my face and I've somehow slid down the front of my refrigerator into a crumpled pile on the linoleum. I'm pretty sure if I remove the hand clamped over my mouth, I'll bawl. This is not real. It's not. Every single fact I know about the nature of reality and the universe has just been irrevocably violated.

I forget about covering my mouth, and suddenly I'm making the sort of terrible, noisy sobs you expect from small children. I can't even control my breath. Boudica trots in, alarmed and whining, and proceeds to lick the salt off my cheeks. Even that doesn't help. I feel like I'm going to cry until the world falls down, until my body flies to pieces, until I have no more pain within me to release.

Forgives me? He **_forgives_ **me? My own mother couldn't forgive me, otherwise why would she have left me in the first place? I have spent over a decade - no, longer than that, I have spent my entire life feeling like an alien. The girl who saw faeries, who had an overactive imagination, who could sit still in neither classroom nor cubicle, who traveled everywhere yet belonged nowhere. Now a make-believe king has written to validate everything I've always known, everything I've been furiously hunting for the last ten, twenty years.

By this point, I'm almost howling.

_Shayna and Reimi? Would they do this?_ Who else? They're the only ones who know about my labyrinth delusions. How coincidental that only a week after I finally spill the beans to someone, I get this letter? _I thought they were my friends. What kind of sick, cruel ...?_

_... but how could they have gotten into the apartment?_

_No, they've been kind to me. They wouldn't do this._

_But then, how? **How?** And even if someone knew enough to pull off this prank, and could get into my place, where did they get the vellum, and learn how to write with a quill? Nobody does this anymore._

The tears have calmed down, and my ragged sobs slow to hiccups. I inspect the letter again. _Jareth?__  
_

That's right. The Goblin King was only a title. He had a name, a personal name just like I do. The dwarf shared it with me by mistake when I first arrived. Jareth. It sounds about right. It suits him.

Boudica whimpers and runs her tongue over my nose. I pull her to my chest, and she thumps her tail against the floor. I suddenly feel strung out. Dazed, I wander into my bedroom, Boudica on my heels, and she hops into my bed like she owns it. Normally, I'd laugh. Right now, even laughter requires energy I don't have.

I pull on pajamas: a T-shirt and flannel pants. Something cozy and comforting. I've dropped the Goblin King's ... Jareth's ... whoever's letter on the carpet, so I carefully put it on my dresser and curl up with Boudica, who nibbles affectionately on my hair like a worried mother. I hit the light and wait to fall asleep. It always takes hours.

Surprisingly, I'm asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.

* * *

The problem with insomnia is that you don't dream. You simply don't have enough time to reach REM. The result is that you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake. You just exist in this fugue half-state. Over the last decade or more, I've only been able to remember a handful of my dreams. Literally, a handful.

Tonight, I dream about Jim Morrison. As far as dreams go, this is rather nice. I'm seeing The Doors perform live in Chicago in 1968 (arguably the best tour of their career) and during a break, somehow I get a backstage pass. Suddenly, there he is: Mr. Mojo Risin himself, shirtless and nursing a beer. We start talking and he is _**really** _into me. I'm thinking, _**Damn**, this is going to end well! Awesome!_

By and by, I suggest to Morrison that he come home with me, and he thinks this is a mighty fine idea. (Never mind that he has a concert to finish. The dream follows my logic.) Even though we're in Chicago, somehow we're back in New Jersey and entering my apartment, and it's the present instead of the 1960's, and Morrison still looks like a very young man, but screw continuity.

Anyway, one thing leads to another and Morrison and I are making out in my bed - and it's hardcore kissing, the kind where you're rapidly shedding clothes and heading toward third base. I'm starting to moan.

Then suddenly Morrison pulls back from me and says, _What?_ in this angry, hurt tone, and I realize to my embarrassment that I've said the wrong name. I thought that was the sort of thing that only happened in TV dramas.

The door to my bedroom opens, and I panic for a moment, expecting my dad to walk in. Because seriously, what's the worst possible thing that could happen to you as you're getting some than for your parents to walk in? Only it's not Dad at all. It's the Goblin King. He's wearing his armor, but the look on his face is the same expression a person gets when they've unexpectedly heard their name while walking around the mall. Totally unaware, even blissfully innocent.

But when he walks in, his face changes. It's a terrible face, as if it's slammed shut like a door. He reverses the way he came without even turning his back on us, yanking the door closed with him.

I'm scrambling from the bed, ignoring Morrison's calls, running out the door half-naked._ Jareth! Wait! No!_

I dash into my living room, only it's not my living room anymore, it's a long stone corridor in a castle, and it has no end. I run anyway, calling, calling, crying, sure that I've screwed this up beyond repair, that I've done something unspeakably bad that can never be fixed ...

* * *

I startle awake and seek out my alarm clock in the darkness. The glowing numerals say it's 3:13am. _Oh, my God!_ I got home and passed out at 8 o'clock. I've just slept seven hours for the first time since 10th grade: a record. To top it off, I had sexy dreams, even if they did end on a sour note.

A floorboard in the other room creaks, and I freeze. Boudica leaps down from my bed snarling. Wonderful. I got over my insomnia just in time to be murdered by an intruder. It figures.

I grab the baseball bat next to my bed and gingerly follow Boudica, who's clustered around my bedroom door as if she's prepared to ram her way through it. When I open the door, she charges into the living room growling. The room floods with amber light as I flip the wall switch. Everything looks untouched. The chain remains on the door. The windows are shut and anyway, there's no way someone could climb in this high up.

_Jesus! My nerves! I can't handle any more surprises this week._

Boudica has turned her attention to my dark kitchen, and she woofs happily, then sits as if expecting a treat. Without warning, a bone skitters across the floor from the shadows, and she delightedly snaps it up and trots to her bed, tail wagging.

I freeze again. Even my brain freezes. Can not compute.

And the Goblin King just ... walks out from the shadows of my kitchen. Melts forth from the darkness, really, as if he's always been there, only waiting. He looks just as he did in my dream, with his armor and black leather. He hasn't aged a day from my imagination, though now I'm almost as tall as he is. Judging from his quick inspection of me, he's noticed.

He wears a small smile that might be happy, might be sad, might be devious. I can't tell. When he cocks his head and blinks his strange eyes, I'm reminded of a bird.

Horrified, I've unconsciously backed up past Boudica and into the closed bedroom door. _Thud, clatter, clatter, clatter._ There goes the bat. My fingers can't manage anything right now.

Our eyes follow the bat's journey across the floorboards. The Goblin King quirks an eyebrow at me. My face still can't move. I wonder if it's possible to literally die of shock. My heart is compressing itself to death inside my chest.

"I see you got my letter," he murmurs softly, "although I didn't expect you to call upon me so soon, or that I would even be around to hear it."

I shake my head. I can't take my eyes off of him. Afraid that if I do, he'll disappear again.

"Oh, yes, Sarah, but you did. Only calling my name could have brought me. Though I must say, the circumstances under which you called me raise some interesting questions." The small smile has suddenly expanded into a tremendous leer. "... for later, I promise. Might I sit?"

I shake my head again. I suddenly have the strongest desire to go back to bed. When nothing makes sense, Dad always said, go to bed. Things will be better in the morning.

The Goblin King frowns. "This truly is taxing you right now, isn't it?"

I nod. I don't think I've blinked once in the last two minutes.

His Majesty looks aghast, as if a dinner guest has been slighted in his own house. He approaches me and, despite my stiff limbs, I swiftly retreat into the door in alarm. This close up, I see the glitter in his feathered hair and smell that same smokey cologne that came with the letter. Definitely Oud. His eyes are stranger than I remember: one black velvet, the other small and ice blue like a Husky's. I think I can see another universe behind those eyes. There are little white things woven into his hair that I missed. I realize they're the dried skulls of mice and birds.

My eyes snap back to his, which appear cool and evaluating. I'm not sure what he sees in mine.

When he reaches out with a long forefinger, it's to gently push my lower jaw back into place. I guess I've been gaping. That should be the end of it, but he runs a gloved thumb along my lower lip, and then he leans in and lightly kisses the corner of my mouth.

I can feel my eyes shut, and my mouth sigh.

"Fret not," he whispers against my cheek. "I bring you the kiss of peace."

When he pulls back, I can feel the blood circulating in my limbs again, and my face is uncommonly warm. My nod this time is more fluid, less jerky. I think I might even smile a bit.

"I have not lived nearly so long without coming to understand the limits of mortals," the Goblin King says. "I think perhaps I have overfilled your cup today, so let us leave off until tomorrow."

"What?" It's the first words I've spoken to the Goblin King since he's reentered my life. Hardly auspicious.

His Majesty smiles. "Miss me already?"

"I don't know what you are or where you came from," I stammer. "Until ten minutes ago, I thought you were a childhood imaginary friend."

"I would worry for the mental health of any child who would consider **_me_ **their friend, imaginary or no." I don't know what to say to that remark. It hits a little too close to home. "There is an outdoor cafe nine blocks east of here when you turn out the car park and go left. It sits on a corner next to a bank, and the sign is sky blue edged in white. They serve wonderful pancakes. If you remember this interaction after you've slept a bit, meet me there."

"Pancakes?"

"I think that's what your kind call them nowadays. Flat bready things, delicious with syrup, rot your teeth. Heaven on a plate." He has a wistful look as if he hasn't even seen a pancake in ten years.

"What if I can't remember this in the morning?" I ask. "This is just a dream."

"Oh, Precious, your power of denial would be amusing if it weren't so sad." He's closer than I think, and when he caresses the side of my face, I don't even have time to flinch before I black out.

* * *

I didn't close the blinds on the window, so the sun paints warm stripes on my face when I wake up. _Oh, wow, I slept. I actually slept._ I rub my face and burrow deeper into the blankets. There's a funny sensation around my eyes ... and I realize that there's no tightness around them. It's a common feeling, when you're an insomniac. Your eyes always hurt. I've lived with it for so long that I've forgotten what normalcy feels like.

It's almost 11 am. I remember coming home yesterday evening around 8 o'clock and falling asleep -

I bolt upright and look at my dresser. The letter still sits there. The prank letter. Despite the full night of rest - a whole thirteen hours - I still don't have any answers for this. Someone must hate me super bad to go to this much trouble to freak me out.

I stumble from the bed on wobbly legs and go brush my teeth, then make coffee. I trip when I enter the kitchen; I left the mail scattered on the floor. It isn't until I pull the eggs out of the fridge ... I don't know why, but suddenly I remember ... talking to Reimi in the bar when the news reported Mom died. Reimi's black hair. No, Jim Morrison's black hair. No, he had brown hair. Why am I thinking about Jim ...? I had a dream last night. I actually had a dream. I was seeing The Doors performing and I met Jim Morrison ... no, I was practically fucking him ... in my bedroom ... but we got interrupted by ...

Boudica chooses that moment to trot into the kitchen looking for food. When my eyes catch the heavy bone in her mouth, I suddenly remember everything else, including my nocturnal visit from the Goblin King. The memories hit me like a sledgehammer to the face. My eyes pop so much that the sockets nearly creak.

Forget about coffee, forget about eggs. I race to my bedroom and whip on jeans and a sweater. I don't even bother with make-up. I hope my hair looks alright. I'm shaking so badly that it's almost impossible to zip up my boots. By now, Boudica prances around, eager to go out, so I waste another five minutes taking her to the bathroom before shutting her back up in the apartment.

Time is slowing again. I can't move fast enough.

"Be good, sweetie," I tell Boudica as I leave. Her tail droops. "I'll be back, I promise." _If I don't get kidnapped by a fairy king._ I smother an insane laugh. I'm losing my mind. Truth to tell, though, it would be worse if he's not really there. That would mean the magic wasn't real. I'm operating now on pure hope.

At the last minute, I decide against driving. In my current state, I might have an accident. What did the Goblin King say? Turn out the parking lot and go left, look for a cafe with a blue sign. _If you remember this interaction after you've slept a bit, meet me there._

If he's still there. If he didn't leave. If I didn't oversleep. If he's even real. If any of it was real.

I start to run.

* * *

Author's note: Good reviews are the fuel that pushes me to write faster. Bad reviews are the fuel that pushes me to write better. Either way, I do appreciate them. Also, this is the fastest I've ever written and posted a chapter: 48 hours.

Anyway, the most important thing: Ooooooh, Jareth and Sarah finally meet again! Yes!


	6. Lead me not

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the makers of "Labyrinth". There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_There may be two views about Humans (meaning no offence to the present company). But there's no two views about things that look like Humans and aren't._

_- _"The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe", C.S. Lewis

* * *

_Know thyself! [...] The unexamined life is not worth living._

- Socrates

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that humans forget themselves with age. Doubt me? Well, you'd be foolish to trust anything I say, that's for certain. But in this instance, I actually speak true. Just look at any two-year old child. They can dance, sing, tell a story, and solve your latest technical gadgets without even being able to read. Every child is an artist and a god, and every child knows it.

Then your race buggers everything up by forcing them into those assembly plants you call schools, and by the age of fifteen, most children have forgotten how to express themselves altogether. No wonder so many of you self-medicate.

Perhaps you can understand, then, why it was so easy to be intrigued by Sarah. A child teetering on the edge of womanhood, she still remembered her stories, and she still remembered me. I exist on the cusp of every person's subconscious, a monster in the dark, but most forget me around the age of four. Most children nowadays never even fully know my name, though they might recognise me as the bogeyman if they were to see me.

How deliciously funny, then, that I love children - me, the villain! Meanwhile, Sarah, the hero who defeated my Labyrinth, loathed her own brother so much that she wished him away to me, the monster who pampered and coddled him. I adore such ironies, though it must be admitted that I harbour a sense of humour that some have accused of being just this side of deranged.

All the same, when Cornelius tells me that my letter has gone rogue, that it's actually been delivered to Sarah, two things happen: one, my stomach does a tap dance that would be the envy of Fred Astaire, and two, I am overwhelmed by a feverish desire to bog goblins, which informs me that I am, happily, not nearly as injured as I originally thought. I'm far too angry to be on death's door.

Humans don't hold a monopoly on behaving stupidly when faced with the threat of their own destruction. I never should have written that letter. Sarah was only to see it in the event I'd become a grease spot. _This is what happens when you allow sentiment lead you around by your prick. Jareth, you idiot!_

Once the initial shock wears off and my left eye no longer throbs in my skull, I notice Cornelius has retreated several feet from my bed and wears the look of a long-suffering animal trainer facing a rabid tiger. I probably owe my butler a raise, given what I put him through on a regular basis. "Perhaps Your Majesty would like some time to rest? You've been under great duress, sir."

"Yes. Yes, I think that would be best." The voice comes from me, but it's automatic. My brain has taken a little holiday.

Cornelius leaves me in privacy. My bones creak again as I burrow myself into the blankets. I'm half-naked but still too warm, and I can't get comfortable no matter how much I squirm. And of course, now I'm too aggravated to sleep anyway. _You just unraveled your soul before a woman who stomped on and destroyed you once already, who probably thinks you're a childhood delusion. Marvelous._

When I manage to sleep, my dreams are no less discomforting - all empty, endless stone corridors which echo with indistinct human cries, until even they fall silent. I exist everywhere and nowhere, lost in a soundless void.

But then, somewhere in the world ... someone calls me. Someone is wishing away a child.

I'm still lost in the dreaming, so I don't even awaken for the call, merely reform myself back into a serviceable body, sheathed in my formidable black armour, and away we go. Taking a child might perk me up. How fortunate that wishing one away still counts even in human dreams. Makes you more aware of even your thoughts, doesn't it?

The call tears me from the echoing maze of stone, shoves me at a floating door. It is clearly human-made, with a sensible wood frame and a Klimt painting showing a pale ghost of a woman with dark hair piled atop her head, outlined in gold. I twist the knob.

Even as I do so, the cobwebs of fever and nightmares finally break free, and a tinny voice in my left ear chatters: _Half a moment. Whoever's calling you didn't call upon the Goblin King, did they? Did they even mention a child at all? The voice called for Jareth. And the only human alive who's brave enough to use it -_

I open the door and step into hell. A nicely furnished hell, but hell nevertheless. For it's a bedroom, the walls lovingly adorned with art and photographs, the bed draped in a diaphanous curtain. And on the bed, writhing in the arms of another man, a beautiful woman with the legs of a dancer. I'm put to mind of a mature Snow White, with alabaster skin and raven hair and a cherry mouth, a fruit I want to consume. The man has frozen and is saying something angrily to her, breaking the moment, when I blithely waltz in. Both humans recoil in surprise, and the woman and I recognise each other in one horrible moment of reckoning. I can see it in the shock on her face, which mirrors my own.

Sarah.

I back up the way I came, pulling the door with me, but I can still see a sliver of Sarah as she leaps from the bed wearing little more than underwear, still calling my name.

* * *

My bones grind and pop as I jolt awake in bed. No. **_No!_**

This was not how this was supposed to happen. If we were to meet again, I would be formidable, not vulnerable, and Sarah would want **_me_**, not some wretched man who can't even conjure a crystal or move the stars. _Although, she **did** call upon you. Moaned for you, in fact. And that man wasn't real, just a figment of her own dreaming._ I can tell when a person is just a shadow and not truly alive. Real people smell of light and dreams and blood. This man was a creation of Sarah's mind. Good for him, because if he were real, I'd be breaking him in two.

I'm a little comforted by all this. Actually, I feel strangely pleased, like a cat that's gotten into the cream. In a moment of passion, she called for **_me_**. I could purr.

Where are my manners? I left the poor thing so abruptly. I have to finish this. Formidable. Keep to the formidable theme. Save some face.

I stumble from bed ignoring the pain in my joints, materialising my black armour with a thought as I hurtle back into the void.

* * *

The magick deposits me in a human dwelling, a small flat overlooking a quiet urban street. Glowing red light filters through the blinds from a neighbouring Chinese take-away place. It's a tiny home, but cozy, overflowing with bookshelves and instruments, plants and places to curl up with a cup of tea. Someone thoughtful and a bit of a romantic lives here. I can guess who.

Suddenly, the old floorboards creak under the heel of my boot, and frantic snarling explodes from the bedroom. My initial thought is that it's Sarah's soon-to-be-stardust ex-boyfriend, before I remember that **_that_ **was merely a dream and now we're in the physical world. I forget, sometimes. In any case, I retreat to the shadows of the little kitchen nook to watch.

The bedroom door here sports a Klimt poster, too, and as the door bursts open, a dog barrels through it. It's a big brown animal with a white chest, a bowlegged gait, and a stocky head. Some sort of pit bull, mixed with something else. I'm charmed by the dog's ferocity protecting her mistress. Anything so loyal to my Sarah deserves recompense.

The mistress herself runs out of the room, and my breath catches. Sarah looks much like she did in the dream, though sadly not as naked, wearing very sensible pajama pants and a T-shirt. T-shirts are the bane of my existence. So ugly, so unfortunate, especially when a woman could be wearing so many other things. Grecian dresses. Corsets. My ruffled shirts. History has produced wonderful fashions that look stunning on women and enhance their natural beauty. The T-shirt is not one of them.

Sarah clutches a bat in her hands, but it's the gleam in her eye that gives me pause. She's obviously nervous, but if that mad expression is any indication, she's ready to go down fighting. Now **_that_ **is the firecracker spirit I love.

The dog immediately senses my presence and prances toward the kitchen but refuses to leave the light of the living room. I materialise a large bone from the castle's scullery. The beast cocks her head and politely sits. Hmm, we'll have to discuss how easy it is for your guardian to be swayed by sweetmeats, Dearest. If my guards were so easily enticed, I'd have been assassinated eons ago.

In any case, I toss the bone along the floor, and the dog snaps it up before happily dancing away to the corner of the room.

Sarah freezes. When I leave the shadows to enter the light, her mouth drops. It's the same beautiful cherry mouth in my dream, and I have to fight a mad urge to taste her. _Careful, Jareth._ She's taller than I remember and has shed the baby fat. I still see a glimmer of the girl who defeated me, though her cheeks are sharper and the sparkle in her green eyes can only be called deadly. I wonder what she's done and where she's been, the last decade. This is a woman who's seen much and hardened considerably.

It feels like looking in a mirror. I can't help my smile.

Sarah drops the bat. We watch together as it thunks against the floor and rolls away, and when I glance back at her, she's still gaping like a landed fish. For my part, I suddenly feel strangely solemn. "I see you got my letter, although I didn't expect you to call upon me so soon, or that I would even be around to hear it."

She frantically shakes her head.

"Oh, yes, Sarah, but you did. Only calling my name could have brought me. Though I must say-" My mouth curls into a wicked Cheshire Cat smile. "-the circumstances under which you called me raise some interesting questions ... for later, I promise. Might I sit?"

Sarah's shaking her head again. I don't think she's exhaled once in the last minute.

Hmm. "This truly is taxing you right now, isn't it?"

She nods. Finally.

Oh, dear me. This won't do at all. I swiftly approach her, and she retreats into the closed door in alarm, which hurts the heart. Really, it does. I keep my hands visible before me, as a sign of good faith. _See? No weapons. I would not harm you for all the world._ This close, I see the fine details of her face, the curve of her neck and the brittleness behind her eyes. She doesn't sleep much. I know the feeling.

She doesn't flinch as I gently tap her jaw closed. And then ... I can't help it, that cherry mouth is so inviting. I run a thumb along her lower lip and duck toward her cheek, where I plant a hidden kiss at the corner of her mouth. This close, I feel more than see her entire body relax, and her final, forgotten exhale. She smells like shampoo and dog hair and something else, something undefinable, but unique to her. I want to peel that wretched shirt off her with my teeth. "Fret not," I whisper. "I bring you the kiss of peace."

It takes everything in me to pull back a respectful distance. Sarah looks dazed but ... content. The self-pleased feline inside my stomach purrs again.

Still, it won't do to overstimulate her now. I can tell she's reached her breaking point. We inspect each other, wary, but I sense a matching hunger in her, half-hidden behind her eyes. "I have not lived nearly so long without coming to understand the limits of mortals," I say after a beat. "I think perhaps I have overfilled your cup today, so let us leave off until tomorrow."

The euphoria pops like a bubble. "What?" Sarah snaps.

_Ah, ha, ha!_ "Miss me already?"

"I don't know what you are or where you came from," Sarah responds nervously. "Until ten minutes ago, I thought you were a childhood imaginary friend."

"I would worry for the mental health of any child who would consider **_me_ **their friend, imaginary or no." I lace my fingers over my stomach, considering. "There is an outdoor cafe nine blocks east of here when you turn out the car park and go left. It sits on a corner next to a bank, and the sign is sky blue edged in white. They serve wonderful pancakes. If you remember this interaction after you've slept a bit, meet me there."

"Pancakes?"

Oh, yes. Pancakes. "I think that's what your kind call them nowadays. Flat bready things, delicious with syrup, rot your teeth. Heaven on a plate." Orgasm of the mouth, more like. I don't care overmuch for many of the things mortals have invented, but as far as I'm concerned, pancakes redeem them all.

Sarah frowns. "What if I can't remember this in the morning? This is just a dream."

I bite back a laugh. "Oh, Precious, your power of denial would be amusing if it weren't so sad." She looks like she's about to argue, but she falls unconscious as soon as I touch her cheek again. It's an underhanded trick, I know. Technically, I shouldn't even be able to do it, as I no longer hold power over her. But I can still whisper conviction into her mind with simple spells, if she allows me. I don't think it will be so easy once Sarah fully remembers our past and the power she now wields. She'll be on the lookout, next time. I shall have to tread carefully.

Sarah pitches forward easily into my hands, and I hoist her into my arms like a doll. The dog looks up curiously from chewing on her bone but otherwise doesn't molest me as I carry Sarah back into her bedroom. It looks just as it did in my dream, with warm orange walls splashed with snapshot visuals. I instantly recognise Paris, and Tokyo, and Istanbul. Other photographs depict Sarah in other places: golden African landscapes, rolling green mountains of Europe, the bustling streets of New York. There's a boy with sandy hair and a cheeky grin who can only be young Master Tobias. I'm glad to see he's well.

I spot my letter on the vanity. It's crumpled around the edges, which shows it's gotten some careful consideration. Excellent. Our reflection stares back at me from the mirror. I look rather heroic, cradling Sarah to my chest. Such a pity she's not awake to appreciate it.

Magick parts the curtain around the bed as I deposit Sarah into it, tucking the sheet up to her neck. I'm tempted to steal a kiss, but I fancy myself a gentleman. In any case, there's no sport in it without an enthusiastic response.

I walk back into the living room, humming to myself, and cast a quick glance at the dog. For her part, she cocks her head again and wags her tail questioningly. "Well," I murmur, "this was not what we expected, but on the whole, we're rather pleased."

The dog growls in agreement, thanking me for the bone.

"You're welcome, little miss." I quickly spin a crystal ball into existence and drop it. It bounces once, then rolls its way under the sofa. I wink at the dog. "You know how to keep a secret, don't you?"

* * *

By the time I leave the flat, I'm literally shaking. It's not the giddiness of hormones but the aftereffects of my earlier adventure shutting down that rift. I'll probably be recovering for a while. I return to my bedroom and just make the toilet before I throw up. Charming. At least the fever has gone down.

I draw a warm bath and soak in it until the water runs frigid. The bath works wonders on my sore joints. I no longer feel like a contorted pretzel, and the shakes eventually dissipate on their own. I could stay in bed a few more days, really rest up, and then unwind time to meet Sarah this morning. I don't know if that would work. I don't yet fully understand the ramifications of this whole _you have no power over me_ thing, because no one's ever defeated me before, never stood beside me on my level. Until I do, I'm not about to risk losing Sarah again.

So I refill the bath with warm water and fall asleep as I soak. It's now a matter of time waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting to see Sarah.

* * *

Happily, the cafe hasn't closed in the last ten years (or is it twenty?) since I've been here. The staff has changed. It's younger now, and overwhelmingly Latino. The young man who seats me at an outside table looks surprisingly alert this early in the morning. I've fancied all young people to be vampires, given how poorly they function before noon. I'm afraid I stare a bit. I'm not sure what fascinates me more: a youth who's chipper before 8am, or his piercings. He looks like he's had a silverware drawer thrown at his face.

My waiter stares politely back at me. I'm wearing fitted jeans and a waistcoat. Not terribly fancy, but I still stick out in an early breakfast crowd that seems to consist primarily of hungover club-goers gasping for the blackest coffee this side of Bogota. I feel steadier now after resting a bit, and my stomach no longer threatens to upload itself all over me, so Luis keeps me flush in coffee and pancakes while I read my newspaper and try not to fidget.

_She could forget, or wake up and decide to ignore me after all._ I start fidgeting. To hell with this; no one notices as I pluck a crystal from the air and stare into it. The crystal hiding under Sarah's couch comes alive and peeks out into the living room. The bedroom door in the flat remains shut, and the dog snoozes nearby. Sarah's still asleep.

_We could go into her dreams again. Wake her up._

_No, there's nothing attractive about appearing overeager. She has to come to us._

Hours pass. Luis' polite facade struggles with itself at the amount of pancakes I consume, but the lad more or less manages to maintain a straight face. For a very cultured, very thin man, I have an impressive appetite ... for a great number of things.

Late in the morning, after I've reread the entire newspaper at least three times, I check on the crystal again and am rewarded to see Sarah stumbling about the flat like a zombie. It's clear she's just woken up. The crystal on the floor rolls along, following her movements, but Sarah's too knackered to notice. She brushes her teeth, opens the window blinds, makes coffee. I'm gnashing my teeth, convinced she's not going to remember anything.

Then the dog, bless her, goes into the kitchen with the bone, and Sarah reacts as if struck by lightening. She dashes into the bedroom and returns seconds later in street clothes. Within minutes, she's locked up the dog, newly christened Boudica, and dashed off to meet me.

I stretch, relieved and content. She should be here shortly.

But that's not the end of it. Minutes later, the crystal shows Sarah dashing back into the flat. Boudica and I simultaneously jump up in alarm, which garners curious stares from fellow diners before I remember myself and settle back into my chair. Sarah runs back into her room, and then the toilet. She's gone for quite a bit of time. When she reemerges, I blink. Sarah's changed her clothes and done her hair. As she goes to leave again, she slips a leash on the clearly excited dog.

I vanish the crystal and lean back in my seat. So Sarah's dolled herself up and bringing the pooch. Curious. I like the first bit - it shows she's eager to make a good impression - but I'm not sure what the latter means. Does she want extra protection? Still frightened of me, perhaps? In fairness, she probably should be. I've proved myself a villain, and even now I'm trying to find a loophole to override Sarah's defeat of me and drag her back to the Underground. Don't think me overly cruel. I'm not human, and I don't share human morals. But I won't hurt her. What I'd originally thought to be resentment of her beating me was really, I'm rapidly discovering, grief at losing something I lusted over and loved.

This whole love business is going to be an issue, I can tell. It opens one up to vulnerabilities, which I dislike.

When Sarah arrives minutes later, it's like watching a movie character walk off a screen. I've envisioned her for years, and now here she is. She wears denim and an emerald green sweater that hugs her curves and brings out the colour of her eyes. Her black hair is luminous and pinned back from her face. Very fetching. I'd like to run my hands through it. There will be time for that, I'm sure, just not now. _Careful, Jareth._

She doesn't spot me right away. Perhaps she expects me to be wearing my armour in a crowd of humans, which is laughable. When she finally sees me, she stares as if uncertain. I stare right back and grin cheekily, and then she knows for certain that it's me. She picks her way across the veranda, the dog on her heels, but halts with ten feet between us.

"Hello," she says, as if testing the air. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

I indicate the empty seat across from me with a nod and a smile. "I always keep my promises, Sarah." She takes a seat, and the dog follows suit at her feet. "That's quite a trained dog you have there."

Sarah beams. "I trained her myself. This is Boudica. Boudica, this is ..." She darts a glance at me, as if still in disbelief. "... this is the Goblin King."

"Please, Sarah, if there's anyone who's earned the right to my name, it's you. Call me Jareth."

"Ah. Jareth."

"What kind of dog is she?"

"I never figured that out. She was a pound rescue." Sarah glances uncertainly down at Boudica. "The closest I could figure was part pit bull, part Stegosaurus." Boudica chooses that moment to growl intimidatingly. "She's saying hi. I don't know if it's a pit thing, but she doesn't talk like other dogs. Merlin would woof and whine - he was the sheepdog I had as a kid - anyway, he never growled unless he was threatened. All Boudica can do is growl and grunt, even when she's being friendly. She sounds fearsome, but she's really not."

"Yes, I noticed when she took my gift last night."

"You're not going to kidnap my dog now, are you?"

"You-" I pause and narrow my eyes. Sarah is actually mocking me. I'm not sure whether she's incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, or whether I should be insulted at the casual nature of her comment, or pleased for the very same reason. For her part, Sarah just smiles again, and I choose to be amused. "No. Dogs are very difficult to change into goblins. And their hygiene is worse."

"So goblins are real, too."

"It would be silly being Goblin King without any goblins, don't you think?"

"I guess so."

"Would you like something to eat?"

She looks at me again, evaluating. "Sure."

"Luis?"

The waiter reappears at my elbow. "Hi. More pancakes?"

"No, I'm rather full." I can't help but notice Luis' disappointment. He's probably been hoping to see me explode. My pancake-eating skills are impressive, if I do say so myself. "But the lady would like something."

"Tea, please. Lipton with lemon. And, um, scrambled eggs and rye toast with butter." She shoots me a meaningful look. "And some pancakes."

Luis scribbles this down and dashes off. I recline back in my chair and rest my hands comfortably on my stomach. When I look at Sarah again, it's with another sly smile. "So."

" ... I don't know where to begin, honestly," Sarah says. "It's been twelve years."

I start at that. "I thought it was ten."

"No. No, it's been twelve."

This upsets me more than I thought it would. My hair is less shaggy in this disguise, and falls in blond waves to my shoulders. While I sit momentarily stunned, I tuck my hair behind my ears and notice Sarah watching me do it. "Forgive me. I sometimes lose track of time."

"Entire years?"

"What is a year when you're immortal?"

I can't read her expression. She looks like a scientist meeting a new genus of animal: fascinated but wary. "What are you?"

"Well, as you can see, I'm a man," I say pleasantly. "But that's not what you're after, are you?" She shakes her head, her eyes rooted firmly on me. "It depends on what human words you use. All of them fail to encapsulate my true nature. Some of you call us djinn, or fae, or gods. All of these would suffice. We have existed since the dawn of time, hiding behind the scenes to shape the worlds and give them steam. Most of you don't admit to believing in us anymore, but I think, on the whole, more of you believe in us than you'll say aloud at a dinner party."

"So not angels, then."

"No, thank goodness. Angels are a different breed of being altogether."

Sarah juts her chin, thinking. "Why did you send me that letter?"

I retort to her question with one of my own. "How about a little game? You ask me things and I ask you things."

"Quid pro quo, yes or no. I've seen _Silence of the Lambs_, thanks."

"Well?"

"Is there a penalty if someone loses?"

Ah, not so blissfully innocent then. Very clever. "No. No winning or losing in this game. Merely a free and equal exchange of information, to reacquaint ourselves after the passage of so many years ... and might I remind you, it's not as if we knew each other well to begin with, way back when. So?" Sarah shifts in her seat but, after an uncertain beat, nods her head. "Excellent. What have you been up to since you left the Underground? Start with high school and work your way to the present."

"What if you ask a question I don't want to answer?"

"You probably should have considered that before you agreed to my terms. But if you don't want to answer something, you needn't." No sense putting her on guard and pissing her off this early.

Sarah thoughtfully rubs the top of Boudica's head, considering for a minute. It's a long minute. I have the distinct impression that she's taking twelve years of thoughts and assembling them in an orderly line. "I graduated high school early. I was just seventeen."

"Were you in trouble?"

"No. Nothing like that. But apparently I worked through the course load faster than expected, so I had the chance to graduate early, and I took it. School was horrible, the kids were mean, I hated sitting at a desk memorising facts about dead white men. The whole system was ass backwards. I was eager to get out."

I nod encouragingly.

"I went to college at SUNY Stonybrook - it's part of the state college of New York - and studied psychology. I doubled up on courses so I could finish early. After graduation, I got a job in an accountant's office, answering the phone and helping do the books. I was only twenty, I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life, so I sort of fell into the job. It paid the bills and gave me something to do with my hands. I lasted three months."

"Only three?"

"I got depressed sitting behind a desk. I'd gone from one prison to another: school to office. I couldn't stand it. I came home one day and couldn't paint anymore or write music. Just ... nothing would come. That's when I knew I had to get out. I'd applied senior year to a teaching position in a French high school, and my acceptance came during that time. As soon as it arrived, I took it and ran. I taught English in Tours for a year."

"Strange that you would hate school so much and then go on to become a teacher."

"Isn't it? I thought so even then, but I figured it would be better if it was a French school."

"Was it?"

She ponders that. "Yes and no. The kids were obviously just as miserable in some ways, though I think French schools are a little different, socially, than American ones. More cohesion. They still hated studying, and they practically itched sitting in their chairs all day. But I got to stand and move around the room -" Whether she's aware of it or not, Sarah is now speaking emphatically with her hands, as if she's again working from a podium. "-and I found that I do love speaking and teaching. Plus, I had a little apartment on a cobblestone street next to an open market. There was plenty to see and eat. I was never bored. I learned French, and the city had several libraries. It was an adventure."

"And then?"

"My contract ended after a year, but I didn't want to go home. I just ... got on another plane. I was twenty-one then. I spent the next four years traveling the world, hopping from place to place and job to job."

"Where did you go?"

Sarah pauses, as if she herself isn't certain. When she answers, she has to tick off her fingers. "After Tours, it was Rabat, Nairobi, Cairo, Chiang Mai, too many cities in China to list, Ulaanbaatar - that's in Mongolia - Paris, Istanbul, a bunch of places in Japan, Prague, Berlin ... honestly, I'm missing at least a dozen. I spent anywhere from a few weeks to months in any one location. I got local jobs teaching English or busing tables, or I worked long-distance on my computer. I came back to the States at twenty-five, enrolled in graduate school for psychology, and here I am, having breakfast with the Goblin King. Why don't you know what I've been up to? Haven't you been able to check in on me?"

That's two questions. _Polite, Jareth. Let it go._ "I've been a little distracted the last twelve years."

"Doing what?"

"What's your favorite food?"

"What?"

"No, no, it's my turn."

Sarah scowls. "I ... chestnut jam, I guess. On a baguette. Why haven't you been able to check in on my life? I haven't exactly been difficult to find."

I sigh and run a gloved finger over the rim of my water glass. "I have spent the last dozen years rebuilding my world. When you defeated me, you destroyed it."

Sarah goes very still. "How?"

"Words have power, my dear. Surely you know that by now."

"Rebuilding ... is everyone alright? There was a dwarf, and a knight-"

"They're quite alright, I assure you. But it's been a difficult haul. I haven't slept much." Smiling, I indicate the corners of my eyes. Despite my recent victory rebuilding the Underground, they still have that tight feeling that comes with insomnia and restless sleep.

"I haven't slept much either," Sarah admits.

"Oh? How long?"

"Since fifteen, I think. About the time I ... I defeated you."

We stare at each other for a long minute. Luis suddenly reappears with a steaming platter of food, which he deposits before Sarah with a flourish. After an uncomfortable pause, he notices our awkward silence and leaves with a hurried apology. The eggs and pancakes smell delicious, but Sarah ignores them. She looks just as frozen as I feel.

Finally, I ask, "Do you remember your dreams?"

"... No." Sarah's voice is very small. "Not really. Twelve years of little sleep and no recollection of my dreams. The first dream I can remember having is the ..." She looks away. _The dream you had this morning,_ I finish silently for her. _The erotic dream I interrupted. _"Why did you send me that letter?"

I carefully inspect her face, which has turned back to regard mine. I momentarily debate whether to lie. The truth wins out. "I was going on a very dangerous journey in a last-ditch effort to save my kingdom. I didn't expect to come home again, so I wrote you."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Faced with certain doom, I suppose that you were the only person in all the worlds I wanted to say good-bye to."

"Is everything alright now?"

"I think so. I triumphed in the end, amazingly, and saved my kingdom. I came home alive."

"Can gods be killed?"

I'm watching a child kick and scream at his mother as she drags him down the boulevard, but it doesn't distract me from lobbing another question at Sarah: "What is your happiest memory?"

My blatant redirect doesn't even annoy her this time. She drums her fingers thoughtfully on the tablecloth. "There is a frozen desert plain in central Anatolia, 500 miles from Istanbul. I rode a horse across it, from Ankara to Kayseri, with a guide. I had never seen such an empty place in my entire life. New York is all mountains. Turkey has mountains interspersed with plains, without a stick of wood for as far as the eye could see. Before I'd seen it, I'd never even imagined it. Once you reach Kayseri province, there aren't any big cities apart from the capital, which is also called Kayseri. Even that city doesn't have the population or the sheer amount of electricity that the east coast has here. The air pollution in Kayseri is terrible, but out in the countryside, in the mountains ... at night, you can see the stars, all of them, in all directions. It's so dark that nothing in the world exists beyond the rim of your camp fire, except for those stars and the sounds of wild animals. It was frightening but exhilarating. I felt alive, and more connected to the Earth than I've ever felt living in any place with pavement and steel."

Sarah pauses to nibble at her eggs. "When we got to Kayseri, I took hang-gliding lessons. The owner was a grizzled old guy who didn't speak a lick of English, so Mehmet had to translate, only Mehmet couldn't maintain a serious conversation to save his life. Every time the owner got frustrated with me, Mehmet would crack jokes. It was awful but hilarious. Anyway, we started on rolling hills before progressing to the mountains. We stayed in Kayseri for three weeks. I learned just enough Turkish to buy food and receive lessons from Mr. Burakgazi. By the last week, I was flying. It was terrifying kicking off. But I thought I was either going to do it or die, so I did it. I learned early that the first time you fly, your stomach drops on you and your throat locks up, so you have to remind yourself to breathe. But after that, it's smooth sailing. You're a bird."

She smiles. "And you, what's your happiest memory?"

_Sitting here with you. The day I found Aydin. _Too much baggage associated with both these answers. "I respectfully choose not to answer. Ask me another."

Sarah looks surprised. "Ah, okay ... so, what now?"

I blink. "How do you mean?"

"Here you are, poof, you exist, you're here. Magick is real. Faeries are real. Everything that happened between us, it's all real. Where do we go from here?"

_Ah, how kind of you to ask. Poker face, Jareth._ "I suppose it depends a great deal on your own desires, Sarah."

She starts at that. "Excuse me?"

"**_You_ **defeated me. In all the history of creation, no other human has ever pulled a fast one on me. Not like you did. Whatever happens next, you're in the driver's seat." I manage a little smile that, despite myself, is a tad bitter. "How is your family? Tell me about them."

"I-" Sarah flushes. She desperately wants me to continue answering her. "They're fine. What did you mean by me being in the driver's seat?"

"Finish my last question."

"I will as soon as you finish **_my_ **last question."

"Tch. You defeated me, Sarah. Isn't it obvious?"

"_You have no power over me,_" she recites softly.

I hate those words. "Yes, yes. Power was freely earned. You declared yourself my equal. I can't help but wonder if that's the cause of our mutual insomnia the last twelve years, and why you can't remember your dreams from all that time." She doesn't understand, I can tell from her expression. "For better or worse, you now share my power, and we clearly connect in the dream time. I wouldn't be surprised if, on some level, and in your dreams, you've been helping me rebuild the Underground."

"That's ridiculous!" Sarah laughs.

"Is it?" I ask tersely, and of course she doesn't have a response to this. I lean forward onto my elbows and cock my head. "How is your family, particularly young Tobias?"

Sarah doesn't move. "He's fine."

"That's it? I answered **_your_ **question in good faith."

She bites her lip but doesn't answer.

"Sarah ... your brother is safe from me." _For now._

"He's a student. In middle school." The words sound like they're being wrenched from her. "He's a good kid. Very sensitive and smart. I love him to pieces."

"So you would say your adventure in my Labyrinth bettered your relationship with him?"

If looks could kill, Sarah would have just incinerated me with her eyeballs. "Yes. Don't rub it in, please."

I lean back in my chair and soften my expression. It seems to work; Sarah relaxes. "My apologies. And your parents?"

"Dad's good. Karen's good. I've gotten along with Karen for years. I think, with maturity, I came to understand just what a kind person she is. I look to her as a mom."

"And your own mother?"

"Dead." The word tumbles onto the table like a pebble. "She killed herself last week."

My hands fall to my thighs. I really don't know how to respond to this, so I settle for a pathetic, "I'm so sorry."

Sarah shrugs. "That's life." She picks up her fork and, for the first time that morning, begins to eat her breakfast in earnest. I sip tap water absent-mindedly as she devours everything with ravenous little bites. Despite my embarrassment at the awkward turn of conversation, I find myself strangely aroused. There are few things as enticing as watching a woman eat. I find it akin to foreplay. Finally, Sarah sucks a dollop of maple syrup from her forefinger (and completely misses the spark in my eyes as she does so), then tosses her cloth napkin onto the table. "So, what is this about me being in the driver's seat?"

"I suppose you don't understand the enormity of defeating a god in his own realm?"

"Sorry, Goblin King, we didn't cover that in school."

"It's simple, really. You control where you go from here. You share my power and, though it kills me to admit it, my allegiance." _More or less._ I can still twist things around and, if all goes well, I'll have Sarah back under my thumb and home with me faster than you can say Jack Robinson. "So with that in mind, I've brought you ..." I pluck a crystal ball out of the air. "... a gift."

_Screech!_ Sarah has shoved herself and her chair away from the table. Hidden beneath the table at Sarah's feet, Boudica growls in alarm. Her mistress regards the ball in my hand as one would a viper. "What is that?"

"You know quite well what it is."

"I don't want it!" she practically spits.

"Sarah. Look at me, please." Her eyes lock with mine. Behind the anger, I see very real fear. "You are not **_making_ **a wish. I'm offering you one with no strings attached. A boon from war, freely earned."

She shakes her head. "If there's anything I've learned the last few years hopping the globe, it's that there's no free lunch."

"No. You won it from me, the defeated sovereign."

"There's nothing you have that I want."

"Isn't there?"

A cold pause. Sarah's mouth is trying to say no, but I can see the doubt nibbling at the darkest recesses of her mind. _Oh, yes, there are things you want._ Everyone has something. A good career? A living mother? Me? _I hope it's me._ I'll have to ensure it is. I roll the ball into my hand, making it disappear as it goes. Despite her anger and fear, Sarah watches me do it with the fascination of a child at the circus.

"Think on it," I say lightly. "If you don't want it, don't take it. But don't say I was never generous." I smile and, for the first time that morning, I show teeth. They're very sharp. "Why don't you take a week and think it over? If and when you think of something, you know how to call for me."

Sarah nervously drinks her cold tea, her eyes never leaving me.

* * *

We part ways after lunch, when the sun has already begun its descent into the west. Sarah lets me pet Boudica before they leave, and then she unexpectedly thrusts her hand out to me. I regard it curiously before I gently take it, and I realise that, apart from the brief kiss last night, this is the first time I've ever touched her. "Thanks for breakfast," Sarah murmurs. "And the letter. For whatever it's worth, it helped a lot with ... with everything from the last week."

"My pleasure." Without breaking contact with her gaze, I lift her hand and lightly kiss the back of it. Sarah's breath hitches. I swallow a smile. _Poker face, Jareth._ "Don't be a stranger."

I turn away from her first and walk down the street humming to myself, hands in my pockets. I don't turn around, not once, aware that she's watching me as I go.

* * *

Turkish Delight must be eaten fresh, when it comes in soft, chewy rolls. You don't want the hardened, vacuum-sealed garbage you find sitting on shelves in non-Turkish communities in America and Europe. As soon as I leave Sarah, I head immediately for Sultanahmet - the old part of Istanbul that was once called Constantinople, before the city swallowed up the surrounding hamlets and villages into the metropolis you know today.

I have heard some refer to Istanbul as the Paris of the Middle East. That part of the world has many lovely cities, so it's difficult to bestow such a moniker on just one. However, I think Istanbul would be a serious contender for the title. I would go so far as to say that Paris is the Istanbul of western Europe. A crossroads of cultures and languages for many centuries, Istanbul is today a mecca of art, architecture, business, food, and culture. You can always tell which teams are winning during the football season, because fans take to the streets with home-made banners, cheering at the top of their lungs. I would be worried to see Turkish and Irish football fans clash at a game in the same way housewives fear accidentally mixing bleach and ammonia.

Turkey is, strictly speaking, a secular country; yet five times a day, the _müezzinler _call the faithful to worship by singing over the loudspeakers of the mosques. Each müezzin tries to outdo the others, so it becomes a beautiful endless wave of song, rolling across the city like thunder. The residents seem used to this. The first time I visited Istanbul, I was so touched by it that I had to sit down.

I pop into existence around the corner from the Grand Bazaar. It's dinner time, but there are still humans rushing about at this hour, and most of their eyes slide right off of me, except for a little girl clutching her father's hand. Her face crumples like tissue paper. Pure terror.

I smile and whisper, "You don't see me, my dear." Her face relaxes, and she looks confused long enough for me to vanish into the crowd heading indoors.

The Grand Bazaar is an enormous building with domed ceilings of cracked white plaster. It's very old, by human standards. (By mine, it was breakfast time.) Hundreds of vendors sell their wares from little holes in the walls: jewelry, bookstands, spices, silver coffee sets, bolts of cloth, food. So much food. Pecans, dried fruits, spicy sausages called_ sucuk_, blocks of salty white cheese called _beyaz peynir_. Many vendors sell the same things, so who you patronise depends on how much you want to spend. Prices in Istanbul are always negotiable, which might seem odd to Americans.

We're not far from the Bosphorus, so the air filtering through the doors is slightly chill. With my fair features and white-blond hair, I know I stick out of the crowd. All the same, I bounce around from vendor to vendor, inspecting everything with a bored look on my face.

The gentleman at one stall finally notices me as I pass. "Hello, hello," he calls in passable English. "Delicious Turkish Delight today, sir. Very good. Please, try some." I smile lightly as I step inside. Turkish Delight comes in more varieties than New Yorkers have ice cream flavours. This gentleman has an entire wall of Turkish Delight: in logs, in balls, in squares. Purple, white, pink, red, brown. With clotted cream, with walnuts, with pistachios, with rose water, with mint, with orange. The man cuts me a piece of something that tastes faintly of cherries.

It's pretty good, but I keep a neutral face. "Hmm. How much?"

"Usually I sell a box for thirty lira. But for you, sir, I give twenty-five."

I cock my head and let my eyes slide over the shelves, seeking. "Thank you very much, I'll think on it." I nod politely and begin to leave.

The man darts after me. "Twenty. You want this for yourself, sir? Maybe to give to someone? I can do twenty."

"Yes, it's for a lady friend of mine."

"Ah, you are a man in love. I am happy for you, sir, and want to see your lady happy, too. Eighteen. It's as low as I can go, or my boss will be unhappy with me. Eighteen, and I will give you _baklava_, too. Very fresh."

I smile again and just say, "Thank you, I'll think about it." I can taste the man's frustration in my mouth as I leave. In truth, the Turkish Delight was so-so and from the beginning, I had no intent to buy it. But nettling him was amusing. We have to take our pleasure where we can.

I do this with half a dozen vendors in the Grand Bazaar that evening, successfully frustrating all of them. One man actually mutters under his breath, something about arrogant low-balling Europeans. We'd been speaking until that point in English, so he's horrified when I respond in pitch-perfect Turkish, "All my European friends will be sad to hear that's how you feel about your customers." As I leave, he chases me out of the store, begging me to come back.

By this time, it's coming on eight o'clock, and I haven't found anything. Tasted much, yes, but nothing that grabs my tongue. I've eaten the best _lokum_ in my time - the kind that makes your eyes roll in your head, in a good way. I suppose I mustn't be hard on these vendors. It's nearly impossible to please the palate of someone who's immortal. We've seen and tasted too much.

If memory serves, there was a wonderful little lokum maker one of the last times I was in Istanbul, sometime in the 1790s. Haci Bekir was his name. I wonder if his lineage still lives on. I ask around and am pleasantly surprised to find that Haci Bekir has become a legend. It was he who introduced Turkish Delight to Europe at the dawn of the 19th century. In fact, waxes an enthusiastic hotel bellhop, the Haci Bekir company has several locations, from Istanbul to Riyadh - and wouldn't you know it, but there's one shop just down the street? They're open until nine o'clock.

I find the shop easily: it's a large place with a chocolate brown front and very helpful staff, and the Turkish Delight is just as mouthwatering as I remember: chewy, slightly fragrant, with a hint of powdered sugar and lemon. Perfection. The clerk wraps the Turkish Delight in paper and seals it in a silver-tinfoil box. The woman conversationally tells me that it will last a good while, to keep it at room temperature, and will I be taking it on an aeroplane? I tell her no.

* * *

That night, I check in on Sarah via the crystal under her sofa. It's a dangerous world out there, and I want to ensure she made it home. I hope that dog is a better guardian than she showed herself with me.

In any case, I spot Sarah puttering around the flat: making supper, vacuuming, talking on the phone with Toby. She laughs a lot with him, I notice, which makes me a little sad for her. She'll grieve him in the Underground. Still, she'll get over it soon enough. I'll make her happy.

* * *

The only dream I remember from that night is this: a white amorphous world, full of light and stars, which quickly rearranges itself into a wooded glen fed by a stream. I find Sarah dancing barefoot by herself in the grass while a unicorn grazes nearby. How quaint. I wouldn't think a hardened traveler such as my Sarah would still host such idyllic fantasies, but that's part of what I like about her.

I intentionally step on a twig to alert her to my presence, but Sarah looks unafraid as I approach. "Oh, it's you!" she exclaims. "Do you know this place?"

I squint at the surrounding trees. "I believe this is one of your own making, my lady. You design your own dreams, you know."

Sarah pauses. "Oh, this is a dream. Of course it is."

"May I have this dance?" I offer my gloved hand. I wear trousers and a jacket you'd find in my world, not hers. Gold thread lines the cuffs. Very flashy. She doesn't balk at my vestments, or my offer, merely smiles and takes my hand. We silently fall into an easy dance, alone in that quiet place. Despite the lack of music, we keep an even tempo and avoid treading on each other's feet. With a flourish, I materialise Sarah into a red ball gown, her hair dusted with diamonds - leagues away from the poofy dress of her childhood fantasies. Very adult and sensual; it suits her well. As a bonus, it reveals a stunning amount of cleavage.

Sarah responds with laughter and moves in to lean against my chest, and my heart flutters against my ribs like a caged bird. _Stop that._ I peel my attention from my misbehaving heart and murmur into Sarah's hair, "Dearest?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"You can have this, you know. Make it real. You need only wish it."

"It's just a fantasy. It's not real."

I tip her chin upwards to look at me. "But it can be. Use your right words."

Heaven help me, she's even beautiful when she frowns. "... right words?"

"Yes." The world around us flutters. Sarah is waking up. I steal a moment to kiss her hand again. "Remember this. You need only wish it."

Sarah still looks confused and unhappy as the air melts, and all goes dark.

* * *

The next day, I have some goblins deliver the Turkish Delight while Sarah is out. She returns from errands to find the silver box gleaming on the kitchen table. I watch it all from my crystal, and I'm unsurprised when Sarah jumps at the discovery. But I **_am_ **surprised when she runs a finger over the box, flips it open, and doesn't eat anything. Have I progressed so little with her?

_There **was** that whole peach fiasco._ I'd have thought she'd be over that by now.

Sarah leaves the Turkish Delight on the table and goes to bed, which leaves me feeling wounded. That night, we dance some more through her dreams, but she's easily distracted, and none of my gentle teasing appears to reach her.

* * *

A few days later, I go shopping in downtown Tokyo, in Ginza. I buy a box of _kompeito_, small coloured candies made of pure sugar, and sweet pink _mochi_, or rice cakes filled with red bean paste and wrapped in cherry blossom leaves. The former is hard and cracks wonderfully against the back teeth. The latter is chewy, and you have to work your jaw something fierce around it, but it forms a pleasurable sensation in the mouth and all the way down.

When this box appears on the kitchen table, Sarah doesn't even touch it right away. She's too distracted to heat up her can of Spaghettios, simply dumps it into a ceramic bowl and eats it cold while staring at the box the same way she did my crystal ball at the breakfast table. It doesn't inspire confidence in me. This time, I've included a small letter tucked into the box's wrappings. When she finally deigns to open the box, she spots the letter and unfolds it to read - _Dear Sarah: Sweets for the sweet? It's safe food, I promise. I'm a horrid cook, so my hope is to win your heart through your stomach, and someone else's culinary skills. Best, Jareth._

She actually laughs aloud at that, which pleases me, but she still closes the box without touching any of its contents.

That night, Sarah surprises me by leading me on a merry chase on horseback through the dreaming. I don't know what we're chasing. Neither of us is armed. All the same, it's a fun, silly game. We take a brief break atop a hill overlooking a foreign valley I don't recognise. "Don't you want to dance?" I ask, puzzled.

Sarah chuckles at me and doesn't answer, merely whips her horse and is off again.

* * *

All things in fairy tales come in threes. The third gift makes Sarah pause the most. I thought it might, given how long she lived in France: it's a cream-coloured box stamped in gold foil and little pictures of fruits and flowers. A matching cream ribbon tops the whole affair in a neat bow. Sarah opens it to find a choice selection of _macarons_ from Ladurée, a premier luxury confectioner. The little jewels of crispy meringue and chocolate come in a chorus of colours: lavender, eggshell, crimson, sapphire, jade. They're almost too beautiful to eat, but I've never met anyone who's been able to resist trying one. Any resident of Paris, past or present, would be familiar with Ladurée and its culinary creations.

Sarah skims her fingers over the thin paper that comes with each box that explains the different flavours. In the end, she still eats nothing, just folds up the paper and rewraps the box before placing it with my other unused gifts on the kitchen table.

I feel impotent.

That night, Sarah and I play chess, and I have to refrain from squirming in my seat. Every other woman I've ever seduced has been interested in the same things: pretty baubles and trinkets, gold for their necks and silk underthings for their bodies. I know the correct moves for that. I've never played chess with a paramour, certainly not on what modern mortals would refer to as a date, even if it's in a dream.

I would refuse to admit it aloud if you were to ask me, but I'm starting to feel uncertain and just a bit miserable.

* * *

I do have one dream that week that doesn't include Sarah. Just one. It involves an imaginary shadow I pull from the ether and mix with my own wishes, some glitter and spit. I mould its form with my fingers, teasing its limbs into shape with the palms of my hands, plying it until it becomes the spirit and image of her. When she's done, I breathe her to life - literally, with my own breath, ghosting my lips against hers - and her eyelids flutter open.

Her eyes don't look quite like Sarah's, and she doesn't smell right. She's obviously the shallow, lifeless byproduct of a dream. But otherwise she resembles Sarah quite convincingly right down to her laugh, and her flesh is warm, and she's very willing under my touch. We spend that dream frantically rutting against the desk in my study, and she cries out when I bite her shoulder as I pound into her. When we kiss it hurts, and when we need to breathe neither pulls back, just pants into each other's black-hole mouths. It's all slippery saliva and not very nice, but we can't help it, just cling to each other like two lonely people who crave the salvation the other provides.

* * *

One morning, seven days after my breakfast with Sarah, I check on the crystal in her flat and know immediately that something is wrong: the crystal remains dark. I tap it several times and try bouncing it off the wall next to my bed, but no dice. I don't think I've ever had a crystal break on me before. Frustrated, I end up crushing it beneath my heel. It cracks with a puff of glitter and vanishes on the wind.

That's when I hear it, quite clearly but far away: _Goblin King, I need you._

Music to my ears. I slip sideways and, between one breath and the next, find myself standing in Sarah's living room. She wears an ivy green dress with lace stockings, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. I have no complaints. I'm wearing dark pants, a leather jacket with a wide collar, and boots with silver buckles. I think we make a nice match; very casual, very different, but cute.

I can't help my grin. "You rang?"

"Yes." Sarah doesn't smile. Instead she directs my attention to an overturned mixing bowl. "Care to explain that?"

_Dammit, this will not end well._ "Surely you can't expect me to tell you anything about your own cooking utensils."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb, you fairy bimbo. Look under the bowl." I do, and of course I see my own crystal staring back at me. No wonder I wasn't getting any reception. It wasn't broken; Sarah had covered it. "Care to explain?"

"A protective measure."

Sarah scoffs. "Oh, really?"

"How else am I supposed to know how you're doing?"

"Oh, so you're spying on me? Telephones are really beyond your ken, aren't they?"

"You won't be able to ring me if you're in trouble."

"Dammit, Goblin King, you're not my social secretary, or my bodyguard! I want this out of my house, now!"

She kicks the crystal at me. It bounces off the toe of my boot. I sigh and roll my eyes, but with a hand gesture from yours truly, the crystal bounces into my palm and winks out of existence. "Satisfied?" Sarah's glare could fell a Nazi at fifty paces. "Alright, I'm terribly sorry. I completely misjudged the situation, and I should have asked you first before assuming anything." I pull a very sorrowful but, hopefully, sincere expression. "Forgiven?"

Sarah chews her lip. "I've been thinking about your offer last week. Your little antic doesn't inspire the greatest confidence, Your Majesty." She rubs her temple and sighs. "... but I'd like to take you up on it."

"You-" I squint at her. Sarah looks utterly open and honest, even raw. Given the past week, I've figured she was going to shoot me down completely. That she would agree to accept my wish knocks me for a loop. My knee-jerk response is, _Really?_ That doesn't sound quite so powerful and formidable, so I settle on, "Ah? And what have you decided on?"

Sarah hesitates. "First, some ground rules."

"But of course." I have to refrain from shivering. _Here it comes._

"This is a wish freely earned as a result of my victory over you," Sarah says. "After this, neither of us owes the other anything."

"Granted."

"This wish has nothing to do whatsoever with my family or friends, so you'll leave them out of it."

"Certainly."

"There is no way you can use this wish to get me Underground, nor can you use any loopholes where I accidentally get stuck Underground by means other than yours and you refuse to help me get home. If I run into trouble, you have to help me get back Aboveground if I ask you to." Fucking hell, she's smarter than I thought. My tongue plants itself firmly in my jaw as if it's taken root. "Goblin King, I'm serious. Say it."

After a beat, I manage to pry my tongue free. "Naturally."

"Say that you promise, Your Majesty."

"I **_promise_**." It's practically a snarl, and with it, I say goodbye to my hopes of kidnapping. At this point, all I have left to hope for is Sarah's voluntary wishing herself below, which at this point sounds like a snowball's chance in hell. "Any other requests to cheat me of my fun? No? You're certain?" She shivers a little. I think we're both shivering. In any other circumstance, I would move to touch her, to reassure her, but now I don't. I can't. I've lost her already. "Alright, so tell me your wish."

_Wish for me. Please. Anything you want, if it's within my power, I will grant it. Wish for me and make both our wishes come true._

Sarah swallows. "I want to know the things that you know. I want wisdom."

The words bounce off my skull like quarters. At first, they don't even register in my brain. When they finally do, I'm left slack-jawed. What?

**_What?_**

It takes a second before I realise I've shouted that last word aloud. Sarah takes it all in stride. "I want wisdom," she repeats herself, very firmly. "I want to leave this world wiser than I entered it. You've given me all these gifts this week, but I don't think you understand that the best one you gave me was the realisation that everything I've always imagined is real. There's a depth to the universe that most humans will never know. I want to know it. I want to understand why the universe is the way it is, and why I am the way I am. I'm so ignorant that I don't even know what I don't know. I want knowledge I can use to better myself and the world around me. My own mother based her entire existence on appearances, and she died never really knowing who she was or what she was capable of. I don't want that. I want a full life."

My hands have reached up to massage my temple. _Anything, she could wish for anything, and she wishes for ..._ "There is really nothing or no one else you want?"

"No, Goblin King, there isn't." Her voice is very gentle, her gaze very soft. I understand in that moment that she's seen through me from the beginning. There's pity in her eyes. I can't stand it.

"I have seen your dreams since you were very young," my voice rasps. "You wanted ... you wanted a happy ending. Like in the fairy tales, with a prince. I thought you would give anything for that."

"I'd give a lot," Sarah admits, "but I wouldn't give **_anything_**. Other things matter way more to me now than they did at fifteen."

"Like what?" I demand.

"Seriously, Your Majesty?" She sounds amazed. "I've spent my entire life trapped by my mother's memory. If you think I'm going to give up my free will to another master, you're not only delusional, you clearly haven't been paying attention to a single thing I've said all week. You don't know me at all."

I'm sitting on the edge of her sofa, but I don't remember sitting. My gloved hands clasp my knees, and I can't help staring at them. When I look up at Sarah, the pity is still there in her eyes, and I suddenly realise that in addition to being able to read me like a book, she doesn't return my feelings. I'm a vestige of her youth, an old fantasy, a pretty adversary, nothing more. "Ah," I murmur in understanding. "So that's how it is."

"Yes," Sarah says softly, "that's how it is."

"Well, then." I produce a crystal with a half-hearted flick of the wrist. Better to get this farce over with so I can go home to bed - alone. "Say your right words, the goblins said ..."

"I wish for the Goblin King to grant me wisdom so that I may fulfill my potential and change the world in a positive way," she whispers. The crystal flickers brightly in my hand, then curls in on itself and vanishes with a wisp of white smoke. Sarah blinks. "Does that mean it worked?"

"Yes," I sigh wearily. "Though who knows what form the wish will take, or when. Magick is very fickle and follows its own rules." Sarah looks nervous, and although she's just dashed my hopes and defeated me **_again_**, I'm overcome with a sudden urge to envelope her in my arms and soothe her. If you'd asked me even a fortnight ago, I would have liked to see Sarah unsteady and struggling. Now, oddly enough, I want to see her succeed. "I wouldn't worry about it, Sarah. You made a very positive wish, and you were rather specific. I'm sure it will spin itself out fine."

Sarah shakily laughs. "Thank you, sir."

Strange. I have the paradoxical realisation that Sarah has impressed me even as she rejected me again. She's made it clear that I'm not the sun of her universe, that her primary concern is herself. I'm left with a mad urge to dazzle this woman, somehow convince her that I'm worthy of her, even though I know it's impossible. She doesn't love me, and I'm rapidly losing the battle with myself insisting that I'm merely in lust.

I don't know how Sarah's pulled another fast one on me, but she has.

* * *

**Author's notes:** The title of this chapter is part of a verse in Matthews 6:13: "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Haci Bekir and Ladurée are real confectioners, and they ship internationally. Jareth is a prat - any Turkish Delight you buy in Istanbul is bound to be wonderful. Just remember to bargain ;) Also, Ladurée's macarons really are that beautiful; they show up in the 2006 Kirsten Dunst vehicle, _Marie Antoinette._

Please review; I find feedback very helpful. Also, I know I was uncertain in the beginning, but I now know that this is going to be a very long story.


	7. We're all mad here

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_The virtue of soul [...] is knowledge; for one who knows is good and reverent and already divine._

-The Corpus Hermeticum, by Hermes Trismegistus (translated by Brian P. Copenhaver)

* * *

_All knowledge hurts._

-Cassandra Clare

* * *

Whenever the Goblin King is motionless, his face resembles a porcelain mask - something cold forged by the union of earth and fire, solidified into a hard outer shell. His flesh is a little too white to pass for a human, as if he were carved from a length of bone. I see the most warmth in his mismatched eyes, like pinpricks of flame, and the slightest indent that forms in his brow whenever he frowns, as if someone's pressed their thumb into wet clay. His mouth's too big for his face, and his thin lips don't do a good job of hiding his teeth. Even when he's in a good mood, I feel like I'm facing a shark.

He didn't look convincingly human at brunch last week, but now he's freakishly alien in the dim light of my apartment. I must have been half-asleep that first night not to notice. I wonder how he can walk down a street, even disguised, without frightening people.

Right now, though, the Goblin King looks very remote, sitting on the edge of my couch. Reimi slept on that couch and now the boogeyman's sitting on it. For a split second, my mind won't accept that: your adult life and your childhood nightmares are not supposed to intersect like a Venn diagram. In any case, the Goblin King's sitting there, but his hands are folded on his knees and he looks like he's very far away. Light years away. In another star system.

I clear my throat, and His Majesty blinks himself back into the room. "Thank you," I tell him. I try to smile when I say it.

A human would say, "For what?", or mirror my body language. The Goblin King's response is to cock his head at me like a bird, and a strange thought flashes past my brain: _I wonder what his eyes have seen. _The fall of Rome? The rise of Egypt? The first organisms crawling out of the sea? The thought scares me a little.

The strange moment stretches uncomfortably. I don't think he notices. "... for the wish," I add.

Silence pops like a bubble. "Ah," the Goblin King says in sudden understanding. "You're welcome. Use in good health." Weird. I sense sincerity. When he first reappeared in my life, I figured it was to disembowel me; in mythology, stories end badly for humans who humiliate divine beings. But over breakfast last week, I picked up on the attraction, and I thought the Goblin King's aim was some sort of perverse sexual humiliation to punish me. Or maybe just kidnap me back to Fairyland to be a peasant toiling on his land? The guy stole my brother - I wouldn't put anything past him.

And yet, His Majesty doesn't bear a resemblance to the asshole frat boys who were always looking for another conquest. He doesn't look arrogant or aggressive or angry, but adrift. Hmm, maybe not perverse sexual humiliation, after all. That actually makes me more uneasy. I'm in new territory here. In any case, I feel bad for the Goblin King, just a little, which is annoying. You shouldn't feel bad for adversaries.

His Majesty stands to go. I'm an afterthought to him at this point. I can understand that. Whatever his game, he didn't get what he wanted, and he has other fish to fry. "What will you do now?" I ask.

He looks thoughtful, as if his attention's already in another time zone. "I have a kingdom to attend to, and subjects to care for. My work is never done. Not really."

"Good luck. I guess I won't see you again."

He regards me curiously, and I don't have a clue what he's thinking. "You think so? You just wished to know the things I know. If even a modicum of that wish comes true, that would make us colleagues, wouldn't it?"

I hadn't considered that. I'm already starting to doubt the wisdom of taking wishes from the Goblin King. _Haha, Williams, that's why you need wisdom! Maybe you'll stop making dumb decisions._

"My final version of the wish wasn't to become your colleague," I say stubbornly. "I just want knowledge."

"But that's not what you wished for." I don't like it when the Goblin King smiles, I've decided; it usually means bad news for me.

"Yes, it was."

"No, you wished for wisdom."

"What's the difference?"

"Wisdom is knowledge applied."

I mull that over. "That doesn't make sense."

"Of course not. You haven't had an experience yet."

That stings, just a little. "I've had **_plenty_ **of experiences-"

"Obviously not the right ones."

I open my mouth to retort, then close it when I realize I have no reply to that. He nods, solemn but satisfied. "Let's call that lesson one. That wasn't too painful, was it?" I'm starting to actively dislike him. My annoyance must show in my face, because His Majesty beams. "There will come a time when you will regret this wish, dear Sarah. And no," he adds, "that isn't a threat, merely the truth."

"You don't know anything about me."

"After what happened tonight? No, evidently I don't." His agreement surprises me. I kind of was expecting another argument. "But I have worked with your race for a long time. Each of you thinks you're unique, yet your psyches are the same. You yearn for the truth, not understanding the pain that requires. No, I think you will come to regret this wish, no matter how good it is. There will be a day when you wish you had asked for something more pleasurable than painful."

I shrug with more nonchalance than I feel. "I don't think ignorance is bliss."

"That's because you're very young." I almost start yelling - I mean, c'mon, I'm twenty-seven for Christ's sake! - but the Goblin King just keeps talking. "Did no one ever tell you the tale of the fool, and what happened when he stepped off the cliff?"

_What the hell._ He looks as if he's enjoying a private joke at my expense. I don't know what to say except, "Uh, no. What happened to him?"

"He flew."

I must look completely lost, because he laughs - actually laughs at me, the same cold, mocking laughter that scared me as a youth and is raising all the hair on my arms now - and vanishes between one breath and the next. What a nut job.

* * *

That night I dream of distant stars, and black holes big enough to swallow entire galaxies. I want to destroy these black holes, save the worlds they threaten, but something yanks me back from even looking at them. _These sorts of things snare you through the eyes_, a voice whispers in my ear. I don't have a body in this place, or an ear to hear, yet I do. I'm not even sure who the voice is, just know it comes from outside myself. It might be the Goblin King, but I couldn't tell you for sure. In the few interactions with him that I remember, His Majesty possesses a powerful maleness that overwhelms a room. This voice feels sexless and ageless, as if it's always been and always will be.

Suddenly, I'm no longer among the stars but standing, in a physical body, in a sepia-toned world. The Labyrinth. It's not the Labyrinth of my youth, however; I can run through this place yelling, and the stone immediately leaps around me as I move, rearranging itself at my bidding. I can recreate the world around me with a thought. The adrenaline rush is intense.

There's no sign of His Nibs. I don't know whether that's good or not. Personally, I feel more at ease when he's around. Better the devil you see than the devil you don't.

* * *

I wake up again to the feel of warm sunlight on my face. My clock informs me that, like every other night this week, I've slept eight hours again. It's looking like the insomnia is really gone. Awesome.

Last night, I beat the Goblin King again - at whatever his game was this time - and got my wish. **_Awesome._** Maybe I'll flunk out of grad school, but at this point, I'm ambivalent about that. Life is actually looking up.

I roll over in bed ... right into the face of a creature with staring bulbous eyes. I leap halfway across the room as if hurled from a slingshot, flailing and screaming. Not to be outdone, the creature does a back-flip onto my nightstand and starts screaming, too. Startled, a dozen frightened little bodies leap out of the shadows around my bedroom and join in.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" I scream, first at the thing on my nightstand, then at the herd of things at my feet.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" the thing on my nightstand screams, first at me, then at its screaming friends.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!" screams the motley crew of creatures clustered around my bed and hanging from my dresser. I think they're all screaming at each other now.

From the living room, Boudica howls and hurls her body into the door, desperate to barge in and save me from whatever's making me scream. All of the ugly creatures freeze ... but only for a second. Then they start screaming again, this time with much more arm flailing and histrionics.

"_**STOP IT!**_" I roar.

To my surprise, it works. As if I've pushed a button, they stop wailing and writhing, and I realize they weren't that scared to begin with. There are seven creatures altogether. It takes me a long time to count them all, I think because my left eye is throbbing in my head, and my hands twitch in a way I've only felt when struck by a powerful urge to strangle a particularly awful babysitting charge.

The creatures stare back at me from their hiding places around the room. One of them hangs from the curtain around my bed; another has made a nest of my underwear drawer. They're small creatures, neither animal nor human, with big feet and knobbly hands, wearing a mishmash of clothes and armor. One wears a blue-striped sock for a hat. Another wears a helmet with holes for a pair of curly horns. All carry an assortment of weapons at their belts, though one is armed with a rubber chicken. Some have snouts, others have vaguely human features, and one has a nose that would put Pinocchio's to shame. Most are missing teeth. One has a peg leg.

Their rough skin resembles tired leather, and they're hideously ugly, but their eyes boast a bright, shining intelligence that gives me pause.

"Let me guess." I sound surprisingly calm to my own ears, if a little too dry. "I've already met the Goblin King, so you must be his goblins."

The creature hanging from the curtain whistles enthusiastically. The rest laugh and stamp their feet. Amazingly, they fall silent when I raise my hands. "_**Please** _keep it down. You'll disturb the neighbors, and you're giving me a headache, after nearly giving me a heart attack."

"Aww," they murmur.

"We wasn't tryin' nothin'," says the goblin with the curly horns.

"You just saw us this time," says the goblin with the blue-striped sock. Its colleague hiss reproachfully, and one cuffs it across the head. The offending goblin cradles its head, bowing low. "I means, what I **_means_ **is, Your _**Majesty** _just saw us this time. Meanin' no imputativeness, ma'am."

"Imputativeness means isolation," explains the goblin with the peg leg, trying to be helpful.

"I think you mean impudence and insolence," I say faintly, not really following the conversation. Goblins aren't exactly the most eloquent speakers. It's also no wonder that I originally mistook their number for twice as many; by their very nature, goblins are such destructive whirlwinds of energy that there always seems to be more of them.

"That, too, ma'am."

I rub my forehead. "What's this about Jareth seeing you?"

At my question, all of the goblins titter nervously. "She said his name!" giggles one, almost hysterically.

"**_She's_ **allowed, ain't she?"

The goblin with the blue-striped sock straightens up at me. "Not **_His_ **Majesty. We says **_Your_ **Majesty, is what we says."

It feels like a gorilla has parked itself on my chest. "I'm not a majestic anything."

The goblins regard each other, confused, unsure how to proceed. The creature in my underwear drawer finally murmurs, "We don't like sayin' contrary-wise, Your Majesty, but ... you're a Majesty."

"I'm not a queen!" I yell, and all the goblins cower.

"She yells like His Majesty," the peg leg goblin says in a stage-whisper to the goblin at its side.

"Nah, His Majesty yells louder. And she doesn't throw things," replies its neighbor in a tone indicating that this is a Very Good Thing. And in fact, the goblins look up at me with something approaching reverence and even admiration.

"Your Majesty saw us all the time when you was littler, almost our size."

"Same time as you saw the faeries."

"Nasty, bitey things, faeries, and they don't know nothin' useful."

"Like digging."

"Or stealing babies."

"Or shapin' metal stabby things."

"Or dancing."

"His Majesty's real good at dancing."

A chorus of nervous giggles again. I sit down hard on my bed, my hands curled uselessly in my lap. The goblin with the blue-striped sock clambers up to sit next to me and pats my hand like a concerned schoolmarm. "Is a lot," it coos. "Yup. Your Majesty thinks you're crazy. Lots of big people think they're crazy, if they see us. They forget themselves, and us. We never left, though, we was always here. We brought letter from king."

"And good luck," chirps another goblin. "Whenever you was questing, we brought luck for Your Majesty."

I think back on all the times I found exactly what I needed, no matter where I went ... like the time I somehow landed an apartment in Tokyo without a job or legal papers. "How is that possible? You can't just give someone luck. Luck isn't a commodity you can give someone."

"What's a common oddity?" stage whispers the goblin with the peg leg again.

"She sure talks big words like His Majesty," grumbles the goblin with the curly horns.

I twitch. "I mean, you can't just hand someone luck like you would a chicken, right?"

"Sure can!"

"Or you trip somebody. Or hide keys. Or lock them out."

"Then no con peter."

"That means omnipotent," explains the goblin with the peg leg.

"You mean competitor and opponent," I reply.

"We means what we means."

"We got many ways to make luck."

"Some nicer than others."

A goblin with a patch over its eye makes an exaggerated motion of slitting its neighbor's throat. The second goblin gurgles and pantomimes crashing to the floor. One Eye stands over its slain brother and puffs out its chest. Now I understand the Goblin King's mercurial moods. If I had to babysit goblins all day, I'd be grumpy, too. _You're feeling empathy for him again. Stop it, Williams._

"**_Okay_**," I say, then again, a little softer, "Okay. So ... you're goblins-"

"We're**_ Your Majesty's_** goblins," interrupts the goblin with the blue-striped sock, "... ma'am." All the goblins give a sloppy bow.

This is getting creepy. "That's very kind of you, but I don't need my own goblins."

Goblins have the emotional range of a dog. It's very easy to tell what they're feeling. At the moment, all of their faces have fallen as if I've just announced Christmas has been cancelled. "But of course you needs goblins. Your Majesty is the Goblin Queen."

"I'm _**not**_-" _Breathe._ "If I were the Goblin Queen, I think I'd know it. I'd have a crown and live in the Labyrinth, and I don't, do I? I'm a student and I live in New Jersey."

The goblins look at each other, then back at me. "His Majesty doesn't got a crown, and he lives everywhere. Ma'am."

I lean in, eyes narrowed. "Kings and queens are married, aren't they? And the Goblin King and I are definitely not married."

"Who says kings and queens have to **_marry?_**" says the one-eyed goblin.

"Maybe human kings and queens, maybe," growls the goblin with the peg leg.

"Kings and queens take care of the kingdom."

"That's their job, is what it is."

"And they make the forests grow."

"And keep out the bad things."

"And steal babies!" shrieks the goblin in my underwear drawer, losing its head completely. All the goblins cheer like it's halftime at the Superbowl. Someone throws the rubber chicken, which bounces off the bedside lamp and nearly topples it. Boudica howls again from behind my door. The goblins quiver and fall quiet, whispering feverishly to each other.

"I don't steal babies!" I shout. "And I don't make forests grow, or any of those other things you talk about."

"Not yet," says a goblin. It says this not in a mean or mischievous way. The comment might as well be on the inevitability of the weather.

I choose to ignore this. "And I don't understand that comment about kings and queens not having to marry, but I'm not going to live in sin with His Nibs, either."

"Why would Her Majesty want to live in a bin?" grumbles the goblin with the peg leg.

"You'd get to live in a castle," says the goblin with the curly horns. "It's very big but very cold."

"Bring socks," says the goblin wearing a striped sock for a hat, helpfully.

"I don't like the Labyrinth," I reply, drawing a gasp from all the goblins. "And I don't like your king." The goblins gasp louder. "And I'm pretty sure a government requires the heads of state liking the job and liking each other."

"But it don't," says the one-eyed goblin in a very reasonable tone. "A world needs a king and a queen to run it."

"Some worlds got many of 'em!"

"You make everything go."

"Don't you remember your dreams?"

At some point, I'd stood up to pace the room, but this last comment makes me sit back down again on the bed, a little harder than intended. Yes, I'm starting to remember my dreams. The one I had this morning ... just running through the Labyrinth, which molded itself around me according to my will. There didn't seem to be a purpose to this, and none of it had to do with the Goblin King.

The goblins smile triumphantly up at me. "She remembers!" the goblin with the curly horns shouts gleefully.

I'm fifteen-years old again, facing down a glittering adversary atop a crumbling world, and the Goblin King recoils as I advance, step by step. _For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great ..._

_I haven't slept much either._

_Oh, how long?_

_Since fifteen, I think. About the time I ... I defeated you._

_I suppose you don't understand the enormity of defeating a god in his own realm?_

I was a stupid kid. I wished away my brother, and accepted a god's challenge, and named myself his equal. Yesterday, I asked to know the things I don't know, and now I've gotten the truth: when I was very young, with no clue what I was doing, I appointed myself co-ruler of an alien world, with all the powers thereof. The goblins murmur in alarm as I bury my face in my hands.

"Is she crying?"

"Oh, ma'am, please don't cry!"

"I think she's laughing."

I'm doing a bit of both. The Goblin King may well be a nut job, but I accepted his wish and have unwittingly spent the last decade helping him rebuild his kingdom, so what does that say about me?

* * *

Introducing Boudica to the goblins is a nightmare. She immediately lunges for the goblin with the peg leg and tries to rip off the other limb, and the goblin responds by squealing and punching her in the nose. I have to separate them and receive a bite on my arm for the trouble. Everyone gets a time-out: Boudica in her crate, the goblins sitting in the corner of my living room, looking like remorseful children.

_I can't do this._ I put Neosporin on my arm and make coffee. _I don't want this responsibility._

_There will come a time when you will regret this wish, dear Sarah._

I'm regretting it already.

The goblins leave us alone when I take Boudica on her walk. But later, as I leave for the grocery store, they crowd around the door, determined to come with me. I order them to stay home, which works ... for a while. Later in the day, having burrowed myself into a library cubicle to do research, I spot a shadow ducking behind a shelf. It's too small to be a child's. When I return home, power has gone out in the building, and I have to navigate the staircase in the dark.

The weekend drags. Living with goblins is like waiting for a nuclear bomb to go off - for the goblins are most definitely living with me now. I guess they have for many years. I'm just able to see them now, which excites them and makes them more prone to mayhem. It's nice payback at someone who's cultivated an adult life with as little responsibility to others as possible.

Boudica has long had a habit of growling for no reason. I've only had her a year, and I always figured she heard something in a neighbor's apartment that I, with my human ears, simply couldn't. Now I think she's been reacting to goblins sneaking, invisible, around my home. She terrifies the goblins, who keep close to me, and this in turn infuriates Boudica, who isn't used to sharing me.

The same day I awaken to goblins in my bedroom, I lay down the ground rules. _No touching things that aren't yours. No stealing anything, especially babies. Respect the dog. _The goblins consider these more like guidelines than actual rules, though it does cut down on the small explosions around the apartment. My neighbors are going to hate me now, I can tell.

Then comes Monday.

* * *

The goblins aren't around when I leave for school. I guess they're off doing goblin things. I worriedly make a mental tally of which neighbors have small children so I can check in on them later.

The call from Janice Li comes after lunch. I've come to dread her voice. "I'm sorry, Ms. Williams," she says in her brisk, no-nonsense tone when I answer the phone. "I promise I'll make this quick. I wanted to give you a status on your mother's will."

This again. I'm standing in an empty classroom, so I sit down. I usually need to sit for these calls. "Okay, hit me."

Janice hesitates, and my stomach drops into my shoes. "Accountants have thoroughly investigated your mother's estate. I don't know how aware you were of your mother's finances, but she was heavily in debt when she died."

"How much debt are we talking here?"

"In the vicinity of $475 million."

I'm glad I'm already sitting down, or else I'd fall down. In the end, after a fair amount of stuttering, all I say is, "Wow."

"Her estate is only worth about $400 million. I'm sure you can see the problem."

"I'm not responsible for paying this off, am I?"

"Oh, no, no. Absolutely not. What I am saying, Ms. Williams, is that your mother's debts must be paid before your inheritance can be disbursed. Right now, it ... it's probable that you will not receive anything, by the time this is through." I burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Ms. Williams, I know this must be a terrible disappointment-"

"No! Hardly." I'm wiping tears from my eyes, smiling. "It's just ... how well did you know my mother, Ms. Li?"

Janice hesitates again. I'm sensing a war between honesty and professionalism. "Your mother and I spoke a few times, in person and over the phone. It was purely a business relationship." Professionalism has won out.

"Well, I'll speak frankly about my mother, then. This sort of irresponsibility was pretty commonplace. I'm not surprised." Nor am I unhappy. I was truthful when I said I didn't want Mom's money, name or memory. Mom poisoned everything she touched.

"I'm truly sorry to hear that, Ms. Williams. I know this has been a difficult time for you."

The lump makes a startling return to my throat for the first time in at least a week. I have to speak around it, unsure why I'm feeling emotional all of a sudden. "Yeah, thank you, it has. I'll be okay. Ms. Li," I add suddenly, "did my mother know how bad her debt was? Or was she in such an alcoholic stupor at the end of her life that she was clueless about everything going on?"

"I spoke with her accountants this morning. Apparently, they'd been urging her to declare bankruptcy for at least two years prior to her death."

My stomach turns to ice. "So she knew. She knew for a while."

"Yes."

"And she still included me in her will, knowing that I'd get nothing."

"Yes."

"That's a pretty strong_ fuck you_, isn't it?"

"... I'm sorry, Ms. Williams."

I laugh again, but it's hollow. My bones feel hollow. "Thank you, Ms. Li. I think I'll go now."

* * *

Since childhood, I've always surmised that surprises, nasty and sweet alike, were supposed to happen on Fridays. The finality of the week seemed particularly fitting for such things. When a door closes, a window opens elsewhere. "Them's the rules," as the dwarf would say. I think his name was Hedgewart. I've been dreaming about him, these last few nights.

But I lose my job on a Wednesday, and it doesn't end with a bang but with the tired farting sound you expect from half-deflated birthday balloons. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. A secretary pulls me from the Psychology department's computer lab and says I'm wanted on the third floor. That's where Judy's office is, so I immediately make a beeline for it. As I exit the staircase, I hear people arguing down the hall and think, _Jesus, I hope that's not coming from Judy's._

Of course it is.

As I approach the door, my back straightens with pride and grim determination. _To hell with wilting._ I pretend I'm a knight riding to war. I'm walking to my mount and the king is going to give me his blessing before I ride into battle. The image helps a little.

The voices hush as I knock, and Judy tells me to come in. I open the door to find the usual mess, with stacks of books rising from the floor like stalagmites. I see Dr. Lefferts, reclined scowling against a wall, arms crossed, wearing a forest green suit. They must have pulled her from a business meeting with someone from outside of campus. Barbara never wears suits. Judy sits at her desk looking as if she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

A man stands next to Judy's desk with all the stiffness of a coil waiting to be sprung. I recognize him instantly from the school catalog: Dr. Chatburn, a dean of the college and head of the Psychology program. He's taller than an Ent and, like many men his age, carries extra weight in his stomach. He looks like he's in desperate need of a cigarette.

"Sarah," he says in greeting. It's not a warm greeting. "Sit."

"We'd like to discuss a situation with you, Sarah," Judy says, much more kindly. She shoots Dr. Chatburn a warning look, which he ignores.

"I'll stand, thanks," I reply shortly. Barbara and Dr. Chatburn have made no move to sit. Like hell I'm going to allow myself to be yelled at by a bunch of standing older people, like I'm a disobedient child. If they're going to yell, I'm going to be standing, too.

"Did you curse out a classroom of undergraduates?" Dr. Chatburn demands.

The earth shifts beneath my feet. "Excuse me?"

"I should be allowed to handle this with my own TA," Barbara says heatedly.

"It's gone far beyond your classroom, Barbara," Dr. Chatburn practically spits. He whirls on me. "Well, did you?" In the corner of my eye, unseen by everyone else, a furry head ducks behind the window blinds. I keep my gaze steady.

"No," I respond testily. "And I'd like to know what's going on, please."

"We've received a complaint from the father of Michael Bauer, one of your students, saying that you cursed him out and humiliated him in class. Is that true?"

_Do. Not. Laugh. _It's a very near thing. "If this is in reference to a scolding I gave the other week, Dr. Chatburn, it was in response to disruptive and disrespectful behavior that I don't expect of a grown man in a professional setting. And frankly, I don't understand why an adult is running to his father about this."

"**_Thaddeus Bauer_** is one of the biggest donors to this university," Dr. Chatburn replies in righteous indignation, "and your little stunt has pissed him off something fierce. I've just received instruction from the President to deal with this, and with you. We're pulling you from the classroom."

"What?!" I yell.

Judy leaps up from her desk. "Stephen, this is going too far! You haven't even heard her side."

"This is ridiculous," Barbara asserts. "I've dealt with the Bauer boy before, and he shows a complete lack of respect for-"

Dr. Chatburn cuts both women off. "It doesn't matter. It's already been decided by the President's office that this is not the sort of publicity this university wants or needs. Sarah has got to go."

"Ms. Williams."

The man turns to stare at me. "What was that?"

"My name is Ms. Williams." Mine is not a cruel voice, but it could cut steel. "We've just met today, and you never even introduced yourself. Don't use my first name."

Dr. Chatburn's face flames red. "Of all the ... turn in your building pass."

All professors and teaching assistants carry key cards, which are different from student fobs. Our passes grant us access to faculty rooms across campus at all hours of the day and night. I unclip mine from my slacks and hold it up, but I don't give it to him. I explicitly turn away from Dr. Chatburn and hand my pass to Barbara. She looks terribly solemn. "I'm sorry, Sarah."

"Thank you, Barbara." I nod at my adviser. "Judy."

"I'll walk you out," Judy insists. Dr. Chatburn is still fuming as we leave the office.

The goblins escort us out of the building. Along the way, they upend one mail cart, overflow the toilets in the restrooms on two floors and, as we exit the elevator into the lobby, blow out the electricity in the entire building. As we walk past the security desk, the scene is the picture of organized chaos: people fumbling for flashlights and walkie-talkies, people bumping into each other, people tripping over the goblins that race underfoot.

I purposefully turn an about-face at the door and extend my hand. "Thank you, Judy," I say with the dignity usually reserved for heads of state. "I'm sorry it didn't work out, but I want to thank you anyway."

Judy searches my face and must see the sincerity there, because she quirks a little smile that finally reaches her eyes, and she shakes my hand. "Likewise, Sarah. We're going to resolve this, I swear it."

"Honestly? It doesn't matter to me now. You were right the other week. I don't want to be here, and today only confirms what I've been feeling for a long time. I'm dropping the program."

Her grip falters. "I'm sorry it happened under these conditions, Sarah. I'll be bringing this situation to the attention of the board, in any case. This was handled extremely poorly and should have been overseen by a tribunal, not a royal decree handed down in an office."

"Thanks, Judy. I appreciate that."

"Take care of yourself, Sarah." She flinches as the sprinklers flare to life overhead. Everyone in the lobby shrieks and runs for cover, vainly trying to shield laptops and papers with their bodies.

I don't flinch. I'm afraid I'm getting used to these sorts of things.

* * *

The late spring warmth bakes the wet out of my clothes as I walk home, but I have an inkling my shirt's going to need dry-cleaning. The electricity in my apartment building has gone out again, so I make the climb in heels. I'm prepared this time, and pull a flashlight from my backpack as I begin my ascent. I'm too busy flagellating myself to notice the burning in my legs. _You shouldn't have taken it so quietly. You should have handed it back to Chatburn, told him he's allowing a privileged environment where rude behavior and sexism are tolerated so long as a student's family buys off the university. Who does he think he is, to talk to you that way?_

The French have a phrase for this:_ L'esprit d'escalier_. Staircase wit. It's when the perfect retort comes to you too late, and you wish you could reverse time and - **_no_**, no, never mind, I don't wish for that, or anything else. As the flashlight's beam roams the walls, I hear the pitter-patter of little feet swarm up the stairs with me. Anyone else would think it's children, but I know better.

Walking into the apartment, I dump my bag into a chair and stand motionless just inside the doorway. The goblins spill around me and dash inside, giggling and poking each other with forks they've stolen earlier from the kitchen drawers. One goblin knocks over a lamp; a second goblin catches it, lovingly rights it on the table, and cuffs its friend on the head. "Watch where you're going, will ya?" It looks up at me with large, pale eyes. "Is Your Majesty sad?"

To my surprise, and the surprise of all the goblins, I sweep the little creature up into my arms and kiss it on the nose. "No. No, I'm very happy. I'm free, I think."

I look at my feet to find all the goblins clambered around me, as if they're weeds suddenly sprouted from the earth. Each looks desperately hopeful.

A light bulb goes off in my head. "His Majesty never shows you guys any affection, does he?"

They shake their heads.

"Would you like candy?" I ask. Before I've even finished speaking, the goblins scramble for the kitchen, where I pull down a canister from the top shelf. They've already learned from experience that they won't get anything if they fight, so they keep their elbows and jibes to themselves, but they betray their excitement by hopping up and down like hungry birds. I give a toffee or Jolly Rancher to each of them (I count nine goblins today), and they run giggling to their hiding places.

I'll give this much for goblins: when they want to make themselves scarce, they're good at it. They vanish into the shadows of the room like raindrops rejoining a pool of water. Seeing this shakes me down to my toes. It's a strange thing to witness something defy the laws of physics. For a split second, your world has split open. It's a little frightening, like temporary insanity.

A knock at the door distracts me from my thoughts. Perfect timing. It's Reimi, holding a grocery bag. She lives around the corner and often stops by after work, and she recoils now at the sight of me. "Jesus, Sarah, what happened to you? You fall in a puddle?"

I'm suddenly very tired and crave a bath. "Sprinklers went off at the Psych building. What's up?"

Reimi looks awkward. "I wanted to see how you were doing and ... um, I stopped at Shoprite on the way home to grab dinner, and I bought a newspaper. I think ... I think you should see it."

Dread buzzes in my ear like an evil black fly. "What is it?"

She pulls a paper from the grocery bag and says in a resigned little voice, "See for yourself."

It is not, strictly speaking, a newspaper. The Daily Tattler is a national supermarket rag that barely earns the right to call itself yellow journalism. The front page makes my heart stick in my throat: _Linda Young's Hidden Love Child._ The subheading reads: _Estranged daughter shows up for mother's funeral, demands recognition.__  
_

"Oh, my God!" I gasp. "Oh, Jesus Christ. No."

"Page 3," Reimi says miserably.

I yank the paper open and stare in horror at photo after photo of my family in full glossy print, dressed in our Sunday best and paying our respects at Mom's funeral. Although my parents and Toby show up in the shots, it's clear that the paparazzi have zeroed in on me. There I am, sitting anxiously as Father Di Alberto gives his speech. Gazing up at the trees. Talking to The Famous Director.

My cell rings. When I snatch up my phone with shaking hands, I see it's an unlisted number. Journalists. Journalists are calling me. No. **_No._**

"They just published it today," Reimi continues. "The New York Times is reporting the lag time of a week to publish the photos is because all the tabloids were in a prolonged bidding war."

"The New York Times has published my name?"

Reimi nods. "This morning. They're more accurate and less inflammatory than the Tattler, just a short piece saying that Linda Young has a surviving daughter at Rutgers. Nothing about your history together. Very professional."

"But they published my **_name?_**"

Reimi hesitates. "Yes."

I crumple my hands against my forehead. "Damn. Dammit, this isn't ... I've busted my ass for years to protect my privacy, and now this. How? **_How?_**"

"I don't know, Sarah."

My cell rings again. We stare at each other. I don't even move to answer it.

"... but you're going to have to come up with an action plan if you don't want paparazzi stalking you on campus," she finishes lamely.

I bark a laugh. "Well, that won't happen. I got fired from my TA job today and dropped the program. I'm no longer a student."

"What?" Reimi cries.

I wave a hand, too tired to explain. "Long story. But I need to focus now on finding a job. I don't have time for distractions."

Reimi sucks her lower lip. "I might have an opening at my office. My boss is looking for a copy editor. Think you'd be interested? It's probably in line with the work you were doing at the university. The pay's not great, but my boss is awesome. You'd like her."

For a second - a split second - the answer becomes so clear to me. I'll get on a plane again. I'll go back to France, or Mongolia, or Turkey. I'll slip back into a crowd and vanish, beholden to nothing or no one. No one will know me or my name. It sounds so perfect. Uncertain, sure, but perfect. I've always been a wanderer. Maybe this is just a sign that I don't belong here.

"Sarah?"

I shake myself. "Yeah, sure, Reimi, thanks."

"You should call your folks," she says worriedly. "Journalists might be camping out on their lawn."

I hadn't thought of that. I put in a quick call to Dad, who doesn't pick up, so I call Toby. When he hears what happened, my little brother erupts. "The papers published your name? What asshole gave them your name?"

I feel like too little butter spread over too much bread. "I don't know, and I don't know what to do. Is everything okay at home?"

"Yeah, I'm hanging out with Josh. Mom and Dad are still at work. We haven't seen any journalists or gotten any weird phone calls. If they do, I'll throw them off."

"Thanks, Toby."

"Sarah? I love you. This is gonna pass, okay? It's just a bunch of crap and it's gonna pass."

Now I know why travel was so difficult; I missed Toby too much. "Thanks, little brother. I love you, too."

Just then, my doorbell starts to buzz ... and buzz ... and buzz. Reimi peeks between the curtains, down at the street, then turns back to me and shakes her head, grim. I cover my eyes.

* * *

Reimi sneaks out the back of the building and still runs into a horde of reporters who ask if she knows Linda Young's daughter. Reimi's responds, "No", along with strict orders to eat a dick, complete with the appropriate hand signals, thereby making it impossible for the journalists to use any footage of her. When she relates this story to me later over the phone, I laugh so hard that I scare both my dog and my goblins.

I go to bed with two goblins curled up at my feet. Boudica growls in displeasure at this but finally settles down to guard my bedroom door.

It's been over a week since the insomnia left. I think it's gone for good. Despite the terrible day, I feel strangely comfortable. I lost a job that I didn't like, and my lifelong secret is out, but I feel okay. _There's great freedom in letting go of things, _I decide as I slip into my dreams and far away.

* * *

The dream deposits me in a corridor of vines and ferns. I look down and curl my fingers, pleased to see I have a body in this place. A light glows faintly around the corner at the end of the hallway. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I follow it.

I turn the corner and find myself in a giant glass dome, surrounded by ranks of flowers. The moon stares down through the glass, pale and pearly and luminescent, more real and yet unreal than the moon in my world. It almost seems to shiver. I wander the rows of plants, fascinated by their foliage and bright, dewy petals. If I didn't know any better, I'd want to eat them.

When I find the Goblin King, he's working on a wall of red roses, their petals so dark that they appear black. He wears his usual tight pants that shouldn't be seen by young children, and a loose cotton shirt that's a little thinner than usual, revealing the strong outline of the muscles in his arms and back. His hair hangs loose and tousled, but instead of animal skulls, I see bits of twigs and leaves, as if he's been rolling around outside in the grass. He hums pleasantly to himself as he prunes the rosebushes with some wicked looking shears. His gloves are thick, with a wide brim to protect his wrists from the thorns. I stand there silently for a long time, watching him work lovingly on the flowers.

I've just decided to leave when the Goblin King stops humming and, without even a glance in my direction, murmurs, "There's a stool next to the tulips. Sit."

He says this so quietly that I almost don't hear him. I find the stool easily and take a seat. I wear regular street clothes and sneakers, but I cross my legs at the ankles as if I'm at a tea party.

His Majesty doesn't turn from his work. "Do you know what your strength is, Sarah Williams?"

My body locks up, suddenly on guard. "No. What?"

"You know how to move among wolves." He rips the rotted stem off another rose. "That is an admirable quality in a person, and treasured in a monarch."

"I'm not a queen, Jareth."

He looks at me over his shoulder then, and whatever I'm about to say next dies in my throat. The moonlight glances off his eyes and makes them glow like a feral cat's. "Even now you use my name and speak to me as an equal, as if you were unafraid. I must tell you, I find it delightfully refreshing from the usual prostrating I get from humans."

I have nothing to say to that.

He turns back to his roses. "I hear you had a difficult day. I'm sorry." I could almost think he's talking to himself, he speaks so softly. I'm five again, swinging my too-little legs from the too-high stool in my parent's kitchen. In my imagination, Mom would make chocolate milk and toast for me to take into the TV room to watch Sesame Street. She'd smile as she did it and ask about my day, and I'd tell her about Mrs. Pimm teaching us how to write our names. Mom would be excited for me. Of course, this is a complete fantasy. Dad did all those things.

My eyes narrow. "How did you hear about that?"

"My goblins couldn't keep a secret if their lives depended on it - and they usually do. They've related to me the oddest tale this week ... apparently, some of my goblins have gone to live with the Champion of my Labyrinth. Can you imagine?"

"You don't sound angry," I reply thoughtlessly.

"Should I be?" He snips more leaves.

"You tell me."

"I don't believe I should be, no. You won the right to many things from me. I can spare a few goblins, especially the more annoying ones. How do you find them so far?"

"They have poor impulse control and an unhealthy fascination with fire. I'm scared to leave them alone with my oven."

He chuckles. "Yes. It helps knowing how to deal with them. They work best with a firm hand and a dose of fear."

"Actually, they listened really well when I kissed them and gave them candy."

The Goblin King freezes, and finally he turns fully around to me. His shirt plunges nearly to the navel, revealing the taut muscles in his stomach. The familiar pendant gleams against his chest, looking sharp and fiery against the pale flesh, especially with the horns protruding from it. It's sharp and prickly, just like him. "You did what?"

I quirk a little smile despite myself. "You kiss babies, right? Goblins smell about the same, and they don't cry." The Goblin King looks revolted. Despite myself, I laugh. "You can't rule everybody through fear, Your Majesty."

"When I want direction on how to rule my kingdom, I'll be sure to ask," he says icily, returning to his flowers.

_Ah, shit._ This is going to be a trying relationship if the guy can't even handle constructive criticism. Should I ignore this? Apologize? Before I can decide, he pulls the heavy gloves off and flips one hand up as if wordlessly asking a question, but instead he says, "I'll have need of you for a moment." And because I see no way out of this, I go stand anxiously at his side and try not to fidget as he puts gloves and shears on the worktable, then inspects the roses. He has long, clever-looking fingers tipped with mother-of-pearl nails. I've never seen them before.

There's something wrong with one flower. It's slightly shriveled. The Goblin King cradles the sad petals in his naked fingers and calmly look at me. "Do you know how to fix this?"

I scrunch my nose. "A spray, maybe? I don't have a green thumb."

"Botanical knowledge is irrelevant. All things are sourced by the same thing." He smirks at me, then does something amazing: he bends down to the flower and breathes on it, just exhales long and softly, and the air twinkles. Before my eyes, the petals plump up and unfurl themselves, the leaves shake themselves out, and the rose is suddenly whole and new. It's even more vibrant than all its kin.

"Whoa!" I breathe, dumbstruck. After a beat, I finally catch sight of the Goblin King, who's practically preening at me.

"Merely a trifle," he insists, although his smile could swallow me whole. "Now ... your turn."

"Who, me?"

He cocks his head. "Who else?"

"I can't ... I mean ..."

"Yeeeeeessss, Sarah," he purrs. "Tell us what other excuses you have for putting off living your life."

I bristle. No way am I going to let him know he's gotten to me. I determinedly lean over the rose, trying to ignore the _**very** _interested look on His Nib's face as I gently blow. The reaction from the flower is violent and immediate: it shakes as if struck by a powerful gale, then collapses in on itself, shaking off petals and leaves as it dies. Within seconds, I'm staring at a brown, withered husk.

Horrified, I gasp and clap both hands over my mouth. Oh, my God, what have I done?

The Goblin King hums, amazed and intrigued. He runs a knuckle along the flower, but it promptly crumbles into dust. When he looks at me, there's a calculating, alien fire in his eyes.

"I didn't mean it!" I blurt - oh, God, I'm fifteen again, but I really _**didn't.**_

"You're under the impression that you did something wrong," he whispers. "Quite the contrary."

"Goblin King, I **_killed_ **it."

"All things must end, Dearest."

* * *

I awaken suddenly in my bedroom to the gentle snoring of goblins and dog. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the urban landscape outside my window. A car passes below in the street with a sloppy _hush_; it's been raining. The Goblin King and the greenhouse are gone. I want to believe that my active imagination supplied the dream, but I doubt it. We share a connection, him and I, that I neither understand nor like.

Breakfast involves corn flakes and coffee, and Boudica sitting on my feet underneath the table as she gnaws on a bone. The goblins grant her a respectful berth and fight among themselves for scraps of bacon. I watch, amused, as the goblin with the peg leg and the goblin with the patch over its eye catch each other in a mutual headlock. "What are your names, anyway?"

Both goblins freeze. "Beg your pardon, Your Majesty?" says the goblin with the peg leg.

"Your names," I insist. "I can't keep calling you guys _Hey, You_ or _Stop That_. What are your names?"

The other goblins have stopped fighting and sit in confused piles on the countertop and linoleum floor. They regard each other, vexed. Then the goblin with the blue-striped sock for a hat declares, "I'm Lucky, ma'am." The tone in its voice indicates confusion and awe, as if I've suggested the goblins take up polo. "On account of how I keep cheatin' death."

This is true. In the last week alone, Lucky has avoided becoming a stray dog's dinner, street pizza by a police cruiser, and recycling by a trash compacter. Lucky has more lives than a cat.

"I'm Bertrand," says the goblin with the patch over its eye.

"Lucius," pipes up the goblin with the peg leg.

"Orson," declares the goblin with the curly horns.

"Hobb," says the goblin wielding the rubber chicken.

"Wicket," says the goblin with the long nose.

"Skeet," says the goblin who originally landed in my underwear drawer. It has the ugliest face of all, as if it's run repeatedly into a brick wall. Unlike the other goblins, Skeet wears a full set of leather armor and loves strawberries. The other goblins loathe strawberries. Taste funny and get stuck in your craw, Bertrand had complained.

"Why haven't you introduced yourselves before?" I ask, bewildered.

"It usually don't matter, Your Majesty," explains Lucius. "The Goblin King, he don't care."

"He's got to care," I insist. "A name is the most important thing you own. It's what makes you, well, **_you_**."

The goblins collectively shrug, but their expressions are soft and a little more reverent than usual. I've asked to use their names. That distinguishes me.

"Well," I tell them, "my name is Sarah Anne Williams. We've had other goblins sneak in and out the last few days, but you guys remain the core crowd, so I think that loyalty makes you my own special goblins." They beam proudly, revealing rows of sharp, pockmarked teeth. I peek my head out the curtains. Unbelievable: the media vultures still crowd around the front door to the building, and at least two news vans dominate the curb as if they own it.

When I turn back to my goblins, my jaw is clenched. "Okay, guys, I need your help."

* * *

Goblins, I've discovered, are like little time bombs waiting to go off. Fortunately, this can be used to your advantage. Like a musical instrument, you only need to know how to play them.

With some strict orders in place, the goblins hustle downstairs and proceed to rain havoc on the unsuspecting journalists: destroying camera lenses, shredding cords, tripping feet. I wait two minutes, then bring Boudica downstairs to do her business. There are people milling about in the lobby - strangers with perfect hair and prominent media passes on their lapels - but they're too busy swatting at invisible pests to take notice of us. By the time I bring Boudica back inside, all of the tires on the news vans have gone flat, and the electricity in the lobby has gone out. The goblins wait until I've climbed to the second story before electricity magically reappears in the building so we can ride the rest of the way up in the elevator.

Boudica looks mournfully at me as I lock her up in the apartment. "Sorry, girl," I whisper. "I'll need to be inconspicuous today. I'll take you out to play when I get home, I promise."

"Woof," Boudica replies, distraught. I give her extra chew toys before I lock the front door on her adorable face.

The goblins are busy torturing journalists at the front and back doors. I don't know if I can go out again without risking recognition. At the end of my hallway, through the frosted glass overlooking the alley between this building and the next ... I perk up instantly.

* * *

Shimmying down the fire escape is not that hard. The ladder drops with a little applied weight, and I have to jump the remaining few feet to reach the ground. I'm standing in the alleyway next to a dumpster and the emergency exit.

In my travels, I've learned how to slip unnoticed through crowds. I use that tactic now, with the aid of a knitted hat under which I've stuffed all my long black hair, and a ratty hoodie that I pull up over the hat and my head. When I walk out of the alley onto the sidewalk, I keep my eyes on my phone as if I'm dialing, and my free hand in my pocket.

I can see the journalists out of the corner of my eye. They're busy reorganizing themselves after the goblin onslaught, and they're clearly pissed. A large crowd of passersby has stopped to stare without actually offering any assistance. Gotta love New Jersey.

I grin wickedly. _Naughty, naughty ... you're getting way more enjoyment out of this than is healthy._ I feel pretty goblin-ish, myself.

With the journalists distracted, I slip sideways and vanish into the crowd.

* * *

The next few days revolve around job hunting, errands, and fielding nosy phone calls from the media and every acquaintance I've ever known. I never want to be famous. Dying in anonymity sounds like a treat.

_I never knew you were Linda Young's **daughter**! It's been too long, Sarah. We should hang out. _Every phone call from a long-lost classmate makes me shut my eyes and forcibly gather myself. Twice, my phone rings from a number I never thought I'd see again: an ex named Ben, a guy I dated when I was twenty and who I had the misfortune to run into shortly after my return to the States. I never pick up.

My frequent goblin-aided escapes from home only work for a day before someone recognizes me. Then it's a free-for-all as a crush of reporters descends every time I enter or exit my building. _Sarah! Sarah! Ms. Williams! Do you have a statement for the press? How do you feel in the wake of your mother's death? Is it true you have plans to go into acting? Can you substantiate the rumors about your relationship with your mother?_

Keep calm and carry on, Williams. I always push my way through the crowd murmuring the same thing: No comment. No comment. I have to take public transit everywhere, which is a major pain in my ass. I don't want journalists linking me to my car or license plate.

France or Turkey are sounding good. Maybe someplace new. I hear Crete is nice. I pull up Expedia and research plane tickets. A one-way ticket to Antalya is $721. I'll retreat back into the world, bury myself in the crowd and vanish like a puff of smoke on the wind, away from the paparazzi and pop of camera lights, away from my mother's name, away from the bullying childhood classmates who never gave a damn about me until I became famous.

I recall what His Majesty said to me in that dream about the roses:_ Do you know what your strength is, Sarah Williams? You know how to move among wolves._

The Goblin King has a better bead on me than I gave him credit for. I find myself scanning the intrusive crowd, sometimes, expecting to see a flash of blond hair and that infuriating grin. I never do. During those moments, I feel lonelier than ever, and I reflect on the final part of His Majesty's statement: _That is an admirable quality in a person, and treasured in a monarch._

_I'm not a queen, Jareth._

The Goblin King obviously thought otherwise. So do my goblins. Haha, **_my_ **goblins. Good Lord, I really am a nut job. Queen of the Lunatics, that's me.**  
**

Shayna calls me that week as I'm filling out a job application for a bookstore. "Why in the world are you filling out an application for Barnes & Noble?" She sounds bewildered.

"I need a job, right?"

"Sarah, you supported yourself traveling the globe. Why the hell would you need to work for someone else?"

"Shayna, I can't do that back in the States-"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because ..." This gives me pause. _Yeah, why not?_ No wonder I had loathed working in offices and classrooms, where every day was the same. It was a gilded cage, and all a bird ever wants to do - what it was **_made_ **to do - is fly. Somewhere between my defeat of the Goblin King and my entrance into the adult world, I'd forgotten this.

Before I can properly reply, Shayna rolls right over me. "Listen, Reimi and I want to take you out, get you away from all this attention. Our treat. What do you say?"

"Yes," I reply instantly. Going out with my friends sounds like heaven.

I can hear the smile in Shayna's voice, a mega-watt grin that could power Manhattan for a month. "Perfect! Let's go out and celebrate your freedom from the grad school machine, and those stupid paparazzi. Show those jerks they have no power over you."

I nearly laugh, but I choke a little instead.

* * *

Reimi picks me up that evening, and we run into Shayna on the way out of the building. We make a funny group: Reimi in denim, Shayna in a little black dress, and me in slacks and a silk blouse I'd just cut the store tags off of. Before we left, I'd added a string of pearls and a smudge of red lipstick. The whole effect is very reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich, I'd decided, posing before the bathroom mirror.

My business clothes, the ones I'd worn home from Rutgers the day I got fired, still lay pathetically strewn across the bathtub. They'd definitely have to be dry-cleaned, still smell of damp and sweat. Ah, well. Tomorrow.

There's a bar near campus that we frequent when things aren't hellish like this week's been, but we forgo that and head into New York, to a bar that's gotten high praise from Zagat. The trip in starts off uneventful: we leave the subway and walk the final block to the bar in high spirits. I can see the place across the street. We're almost there.

The light turns, and we cross Broadway. Halfway across the street, something moves in the corner of my vision, something that resembles the photo negative of a solar flare. I turn to follow the shadow, but my heel catches on something and I fall.

Reimi is immediately at my side, catching me as I tumble. "Whoa, Sarah! Steady there, girl!"

I'm barely listening. There, across the street, between the garbage can and the post office box: a figure. Dark. Fair hair. My throat closes up before I remember the Goblin King is very tall and this person is far too short. Definitely male, though. I can tell that much from the build.

But it's the face that scares me. The man's face is a whorl of melted flesh, like a candle dropped into a fire.

As I gasp, someone shakes me. "_**SARAH! GET UP!**_" In the distance - far away but not far enough - a truck horn blares impending doom.

We half-stumble, half-scramble for the sidewalk as taxis swerve around us, honking angrily. I jerk from Reimi's grasp and scan the opposite side of the street. The man with the melted face is gone.

"Christ, honey, are you okay?" Reimi looks worried. "What did you see?"

I shudder. "I'm not sure."

Shayna is already flirting with the bouncer.

* * *

We find a table in the back and sit down thirty seconds before the rest of New York pours through the doors, and after that we have to yell orders to the waitress. We talk of shallow things for a while, until Reimi glances at me, perhaps gauging whether I've recovered from nearly dying. "So, what are you going to do now that your job gave you the boot?"

I press the heels of my hands into my eyeballs. "Not sure. I have some contacts at the recruiting agency I used last time. I'll give them a call tomorrow."

"Why?" Reimi asks. "Sarah, you could be self-employed, easy. You hate working for other people and you hate being tied down. Why not get your own clients and do whatever the fuck you want?"

"I don't know if I can do it." It sounds pathetic to my own ears.

She whistles. "Man, you've forgotten how to dream."

Ouch. Before I can respond, I catch movement across the room: a pair of goblins work in tandem to push a line of wine bottles off the bar. Lucius and Bertrand, the little imps.

"Bathroom," I mumble as I shoot out of my seat. On the way to the toilet, I stop by the bar to order a beer I won't drink. As the bartender turns his back, I reach out with both hands and drag the squealing goblins away from the bottles. "I told you guys that you can hang out only if you behave!" I snap. "It's not that difficult, is it?"

The goblins have the temerity to look ashamed. "Sorry, Your Majesty," Bertrand mutters.

"We're just havin' fun," says Lucius. "It's not much fun back home."

"It'll be a lot more fun if you don't torture Boudica."

"Not that home, the other home. The Labyrinth."

My interest piques, but I smother it. "Look, you can stay, alright? But no damaging anything. Or making anyone else damaging something by tripping them. Go do whatever else goblins do." The pair grin as I walk away. "... but no baby-snatching!" I add over my shoulder. Their faces fall.

On my way out of the bathroom, a drunk girl spills beer down the front of the beautiful silk blouse. "Oh, no!" she gasps. "I hope that's not new!"

My smile feels like saran wrap on my face.

* * *

I return to the table to find Shayna and Reimi looking pained. I see why: a handsome man leans over their table looking like he belongs there. Reimi flashes me a warning look behind his back, but he turns before I can scamper away. "Sarah!" he exclaims in a voice that's too loud even for a bar, and the place momentarily hushes. "Didn't expect to see you guys here. Jesus, what happened to your shirt?"

Ben. Ben Whitlock. Damn. How'd he know I'd be at **_this_ **bar at **_this_ **time? Last I heard, he'd left New York. Ben dips a napkin in a glass of ice water and hands it to me, but I refuse to take it. He probably just wants to get my shirt as transparent as possible, anyway.

"I'm fine," I reply, refusing to sit. "You?"

"Oh, you know, another day, another dollar. Mind if I join you?"

"I certainly do!" Reimi exclaims, parking her long legs into the lone available chair.

Ben's smile can charm the pants off of anyone who doesn't know him - a skill he's successfully used on half of the women in New York. "No need for histrionics. I was asking Sarah."

"Don't ignore my friend," I snap. "And I don't care to see you either, so off you go."

He sighs. "Sarah, look, I know it's been a while-"

"Ben, don't."

"-but I wanted to apologize."

I stare at him in open-mouthed shock before regaining my composure. "Not necessary. Believe me."

"It's just five minutes of your time." Ben holds up all the fingers on one hand and mouths _five_. He looks contrite and hopeful and sheepish and adorable. Once upon a time, when I was twenty, I would have fallen for that puppy dog look ... but that was a long time ago, and I'm a different person now.

"I'm really uninterested." To my surprise, I discover I am. Ben hurt me, once, and I thought I'd never get over it. He was an upperclassman at SUNY, and I used to admire him. Now, while I'm worried about how to pay the rent next month, and how to piece together my shattered life, I'm pleasantly surprised to discover that Ben appears nowhere on the list of things that matter to me.

Unfortunately, Ben doesn't get it. With dawning horror, I realize he's only getting louder, and now everyone in the bar really **_is_ **paying attention. I swear I hear a woman mumble to the bartender, "Isn't that the girl from the news ...?"

Panic. I'm feeling panic. "**_Fine_**," I hiss. "We'll talk. **_Outside_**."

Reimi looks ready to put Ben through a window. Shayna just looks worried and grapples at my wrist. "Are you sure about this?" she whispers.

"Yes," I say tersely. Later, when I'm calmer, I'll think this is the stupidest decision of my life and that I should have asked the doorman to bounce my ex rather than let him waste more of my time. Hindsight's twenty-twenty like that.

I shoulder my way out of the bar ahead of Ben. Patrons sidestep us, whispering to each other as we go, and the lights in the place brighten until they nearly blind. With a sickening lurch, I'm reminded of a familiar scene, long ago: a silver ballroom festooned with candles and mirrors, where revelers laugh at me from behind fans and masks. My mouth tastes sticky and sweet with a particular fruit I haven't eaten in years. (_Ugh, peaches._) I ignore the disorienting sensation and push my way outside.

The spring air is humid but welcome to my lungs, and I gulp away the sick feeling in my mouth. Ben's behind me. "Want a drink?" he asks. "Something non-alcoholic this time?" He indicates a cafe next door.

"Five minutes," I remind him.

Ben nods, smiling again. Outside in the streetlight, I finally get a good look at him. _He got his teeth capped,_ is my first unkind thought. _And dyed his hair. He always did care more about his appearance than anything or anyone else_.

I enter the cafe and don't wait for Ben before grabbing a seat at an empty table. Ben saunters in like he owns the place, radiating fake charm as he goes. The waiter approaches and I'm surprised when Ben orders an herbal tea. "I don't drink anymore," he says in response to my startled look. "You were right, Sarah. Alcohol was ruining my life."

My eyes narrow, but I say nothing. At that moment, my phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out to find a text message from Reimi: _we saw u go into the cafe. if ur not out in 5 we will come get u. dont leave with that dbag. _I text back, _ok_, and tuck the phone away. When I look up, Ben's expression makes me pause. To the uninitiated, his look might be sweet, even adoring. I know better. Ben's sizing me up.

The waiter returns quickly with our drinks, and my fingers tighten on the teacup I don't want. This was a bad idea.

Ben speaks first. "God, it's good to see you. How long's it been?"

I eye the door, then sigh. "Two years, since that party in Nanuet."

"Eighteen months by my count. You look great, Sarah. Really, really great. I ... I'm sorry how things worked out between us."

"Are you?" I ask thinly. "Look, just say what you came to say, and we can go our separate ways."

Ben has the nerve to look hurt. "Of course I'm sorry. I thought you might be back in New York, and I wanted to make amends. It didn't end so well between us at the end of our relationship. I know we each have our faults, but it didn't have to end the way it did. I got a promotion at work so I'll be traveling a lot to the city for business, and I'd like to see you. We can start over. What do you say?"

The month's losses - of my mother, my job, my privacy, my innocence - have piled up like a car wreck. Ben's suggestion snaps the last shred of my restraint.

"Start over?" I leap to my feet. "_**Start over?**_" _Bad idea, Williams._ Every gossip column between here and Los Angeles would give its eyeteeth for someone's testimony or camera phone pictures of Linda Young's estranged daughter flipping out in a New York City cafe. I suddenly find that I don't care. "You and your drunk asshole buddies tried to make me do a striptease for you, and you want to start over? I had to hitchhike home from Maine, and you want to _**start over?**_ You bastard!"

I throw the unwanted tea in his face. It's lukewarm, but Ben reacts as if it's battery acid, falling out of his chair as he paws at his eyes. I only come back to myself after I slam down the teacup, cracking it.

A trio of goblins sitting next to the register cheer. None of the other humans hear them, but I do. Meanwhile, every other person in the cafe has frozen and now stares at me as if my nose has sprouted antlers.

Ben looks up from the floor with the same stupefied expression you see on goldfish. I shove my hands into the pockets of my stylish jacket and drop some crumpled bills onto the table. "Sorry about the teacup." The clerk behind the counter, a skinny teenager with an overbite, nods.

On my way out the door, I briefly turn. "By the way, it's past time for you to lose my number."

* * *

I'm fuming. I don't even head back to the bar but immediately hang a left and storm for the subway. _Going home_, I text Reimi and Shayna._ it didnt end well_. I don't wait for a reply.

The A line spits me out at Penn Station, and from there it's an hour ride back to New Brunswick. Once I disembark from the station, it's only a fifteen-minute walk to my apartment. I'm going to put on pajamas and paint something. Or play with Boudica and eat ice cream. Maybe the goblins will be around. Whatever I do, I can't be around other humans right now. Everybody wants something from me that I can't give.

By the time I get to my block, the fury has worn off and I'm drained and shaky. I'm so wound up that I miss the front door of my building and have to backtrack, fumbling in my purse for the key even as I punch in the door code. At least the media hounds have gone home for the night, thank God.

That's when I sense it again - though I can't articulate what "it" is. New Brunswick is always loud, but everything has gone so silent, I think the air must have been sucked out of the atmosphere.

I look up. There, on the corner across the street, swaying like a dazed accident victim, waits the man with the melted face.

My guts twist - and with them, the rest of the world around me. I stumble against the glass front doors. When I open my eyes, the man now stands only twenty feet away on the sidewalk on my side of the street - far too fast for any human to move. I now see that he wears workman's overalls and boots. His obliterated features betray no emotion. He might as well be a corpse.

"What the ...?" My voice reverberates like a jet engine in my ears, it's so loud in this awful silence. "Go away!"

The man with the melted face says nothing. A foul odor assaults my nostrils, much worse than that July 4th barbecue when Dad burned dinner and the fire department had to come. Rotten eggs and charred pork. That's what it smells like.

"Please ..." I'm ashamed to hear myself beg.

The man remains mute.

I turn away and vomit. I puke up everything in my stomach, keep puking until all that comes up is something green that sears my throat. Gasping, I clutch at the brick with fingers grown thick and useless, then turn back, huffing as I wipe at my chin.

The man's gone.

Sound returns to the city with a thunderclap. I become aware of a car alarm shrieking further up the block, and a couple - drunk on alcohol or love - laugh as they dash into the street and nearly get plastered by a cab.

My eyes dart everywhere, seeking, but the apparition is gone. I hear a frightened whine, think it's a stray dog, then realize it's coming from myself. It takes me three tries before I punch in the correct door code, and I make sure to pull the door firmly closed behind me before stumbling toward the stairs. The heavy flashlight's already in my hand and I don't remember ever pulling it from my purse. I don't remember the climb up the staircase either.

Of the goblins, there's no sign.

My neighbors are congregating outside their apartments - some of them college kids, others young working stiffs, and all of them glare as I stagger down the hall. I've become the person weird things happen around, the one whose presence invites visits from cops, electricians, and paparazzi in equal measure. But they draw back in alarm when they see the look on my face, and a gangling kid in a hood calls out, "Yo, miss, you alright?" with what sounds like genuine concern in his voice.

"Mm-hmm," I mumble as I brush past them all. My hand already holds my key, and I shove it into the lock on my door.

The inside of my apartment is warm like a cocoon. I lock the door behind me, slide the dead-bolt home, try to toss my purse onto the chair but miss. It hits the floor with a resounding _thunk_. Something rolls out of it and across the floorboards. Probably my lipstick. I leave the mess and make a beeline for my bedroom.

Baseball bat in hand, I scour every inch of the apartment, checking behind every door and curtain until I'm satisfied I'm alone. Well, not entirely. By then, the goblins have shown up, but they don't rush out to greet me as they usually do. Their faces peer at me from the shadows, pinched and confused, as if they've never seen me before.

"Am I insane?" I whisper. _I'm asking for a psychological evaluation from my imaginary friends. Holy shit, Sarah. _Wicket titters until Lucky jabs him in the ribs.

I'd been looking forward to a shower, but I bypass the bathroom and return to the bedroom, head throbbing. I don't know what to make of anything. If I smoked, now would be the time for a cigarette. Instead I strip off the dirty clothes - my second outfit this week ruined - and waste three seconds looking for clean pajamas before I give up and collapse naked into bed, rolling myself up into the sheets like a mummy.

The darkness is oppressive, and I have terrible dreams that I won't remember in the morning. I only remember the frightened plea that I make as sleep claims me. "Jareth ..."_  
_

* * *

Deep below, in that cavernous world where nightmares breathe themselves into being and monsters walk unchecked, I feel Jareth awaken like a banked fire roaring to life.

* * *

_To be continued._

_Feedback always appreciated._


	8. A brief interlude

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."_

-J.K. Rowling

* * *

Once upon a time, when no one else was in earshot, Leonardo Da Vinci stated that the only reason human societies have not already imploded in panic and anarchy is due to a twofold lie. As we have no witnesses to his statement, its wisdom has been tragically lost to history until this moment.

The lie runs as follows: 1) Humans exist at the top of the food chain, and 2) humans are the only intelligent life on Earth.

Most humans will never question this lie – or if they do, it's because they're UFO nuts and believe extraterrestrials exist somewhere out there but never here on Earth. Barely anyone considers the fact that plenty of intelligent life exists alongside us all the time. We just choose not to see.

Sarah is currently indisposed, trapped in a landscape of her worst dreams, and the Goblin King cannot be trusted to accurately relate other people's opinions of him, so the author has seen fit to intercede and tell this part of the tale. We'll be brief, we promise.

* * *

Imagine this scene with us, if you can:

In the early morning, as the newspaper trucks make their rounds, as Sarah Williams lies locked and twitching in her nightmares, a man appears on a Brooklyn street corner. The author means that literally, for he pops into existence with a shudder usually reserved for people shaking off the stone fetters of sleep.

How to describe this person? To begin, it's clear he isn't a person, or at least not of the human sort. He's a little too thin and a little too languid in his movements, as if he walks through a dream. His teeth are too pointed and his eyes are – how can we state this politely? His eyes look like buttons a tailor has pulled at random from a drawer.

Some women (and a fair number of men) find that sort of look attractive. Others find it disturbing. Most people who interact with the Goblin King don't remember anything afterward, so we can't ask their opinion anyway.

We actually have a live witness to this scene, a widow who's lived in Park Slope for thirty years. On this dawn, Mrs. Andrea McGovern is letting out her cat, Mr. Chubbs, and she hesitates for a moment on the stoop of her building. She doesn't truly understand what she's seeing as this strange gentleman winks into existence on the corner of 7th and 7th. Perhaps it's a trick of the light. Perhaps she's going mad.

Then the strange gentleman walks toward her, passing her by with a grin and a nod to let her know that all is well, and the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach dissipates like dandelion fluff on the wind. By the time she's gone back inside, she's forgotten about this encounter altogether.

But you and I know better, and we know that this strange gentleman is actually the Goblin King. On this cool spring morning, he wears a charcoal 3-piece suit and Italian leather shoes so polished that he can almost see his reflection in their brown faces. His short hair is a mess but knowing him, that's probably intentional. He prefers people to think that he hasn't tried at all when, in point of fact, he's spent a lot of energy and practiced much precision to get every detail perfect.

This sort of anal retentiveness has been known to induce heart attacks in mortal men. Immortality allows greater wiggle room for unhealthy habits.

If Mrs. McGovern could remember anything of her interaction with the Goblin King that morning, she would tell you something like this: _He was the most handsome man I ever laid eyes on in my life, God __bless my dear Ricky. Strange eyes, though. And that smile! Positively inhuman!_

Yes. Yes, he is.

The Goblin King winds his way up 7th Avenue, past the Methodist Hospital and a Barnes & Noble. The outdoor patio of an Italian restaurant is abandoned at this hour save for some roosting pigeons, but a few people are milling about.

One of them, a man possessed by a low-level water demon, feels nervous in the Goblin King's presence and offers His Royal Highness a wide berth.

A block north, our Villain passes two vampires returning home from a night of clubbing. They nod respectfully in his direction and pretend henceforth to be especially interested in their own feet. In response, the Goblin King flashes his teeth. To most people, it would appear he's laughing. Those in the know understand that it's an alpha dog's instinct to snarl a warning to everyone he meets.

On 5th Street, a delivery person (a human) crosses the king's path while struggling under a crate of bottled water. He notices the Goblin King's fancy attire and beautiful face and for a moment, all thoughts of his cheating louse of an ex-boyfriend go straight out of his head. As the Goblin King passes, so does the moment, and the delivery man shakes off the strange feeling and returns to his work.

Our Villain passes another row of brownstones, frowns, scratches his face, backtracks, begins to count. When he's not in our world for long periods of time (or at least, not in human form), he forgets things we take for granted like street addresses.

The Goblin King finds his bearings. Ah, yes. Here. He walks three buildings down and pauses at the gate of a quaint house with a recently-renovated front porch and ivy overrunning the trellis. The gate is wrought in black iron in the shape of a cross. Beyond that, the red front door bears a five-pointed star that would make any passer-by assume the household had a family member in the military, but the Goblin King knows better: it's a disguised pentagram, which makes him smile.

_It's almost charming you think that will work on me._

He unlatches the gate with one gloved finger, then skips up the walk like an errant schoolboy. A surly striped cat (a sworn enemy of neighboring Mr. Chubbs) lies in wait behind the rhododendrons. The Goblin King sees her first and hisses, sending the cat fleeing beneath the porch with a yowl.

"_**Goblin King**__._" The title stops him dead on the brick walk. He looks up to see an older woman with gray-blond hair and a sour expression. In her hands she holds a pair of gardening shears. Anyone else would fear the weapon in her hands and the look on her face, but not the Goblin King. He has little to fear from those under his power.

"Are you always up this early?" he queries.

"Only on days when I know I have to do damage control," she retorts.

He responds with a particularly toothy grin. "Muriel, aggravation is very becoming on you. It brings out the blue in your eyes."

"Oh please, Your Majesty, stop trying to butter me up and come in. I'll get more accomplished today if we skip your games and get straight to what you want."

And that is how Muriel enters our story.

* * *

Strictly speaking, the Goblin King doesn't need to eat, but like many things humans can do with their bodies, he enjoys eating. Muriel makes delicious cookies: spongy, buttery things in the shape of scallop shells. The humans call them madeleines, if his memory serves him right. They go down well with a cup of chamomile tea, which his host happens to have.

He removes his gloves in order to eat. They're brown unlined lambskin, the kind James Bond wears in the films, and so thin that they peel from his hands with the slow stubbornness of lingerie. Muriel looks away as if she's intruding on a private moment, as if he's not the one who's barged into **_her_ **kitchen. When he's done eating, Jareth licks his naked fingers and hums his approval.

"Your species never fails to impress," he murmurs around a mouthful of yellow cake. "Fire, computers, baking … I can't say I'm particularly interested in your computers, but the culinary creations you whip up certainly go a long way in making Earth feel a little more like Heaven."

Muriel says nothing, merely leans against the counter-top, arms crossed. Jareth can tell that she fights a desperate urge to nervously tap the floor. He smiles behind the rim of a fine bone china teacup. "So, to business! Speaking of which, how _**is**_ business?"

The human woman nods without smiling. "Same as usual. Busy. Hard."

Jareth mirrors her, nodding in false sympathy. "Yes, you did pick a tricky line of work."

"I seem to recall it picked me."

"Hmm. Yes, I seem to recall that as well." He reclines in the chair and regards her with an evaluating look and not a little affection. It's the sort of expression one sees on a man who's particularly proud of a prized racehorse he has bred and trained. "The crown requires your help."

"Of course. What is it this time?"

"You sound put upon, my dear. I do hope that isn't the case."

"With you? Never."

Muriel is one of the few servants who hasn't bowed completely to the Goblin King's authority. She is never brazenly rude, always skirting a fine line between obedience and snark while never failing to address him by his proper titles. And Muriel can always be counted on for her loyalty. After a lifetime of her faithful service, Jareth finds that she remains one of the few people he can trust in any circumstance. So he allows her eccentric quirks and near-but-not-quite-contempt, which annoys and amuses him in equal measure.

Jareth doesn't have many confidantes, and he has no friends. If it were possible for the Goblin King to have the luxury of a friend, he supposes Muriel would be one of his.

"Your excitement is exhilarating," he drawls. "I have a job for you … or perhaps it's more of a project."

"A project?" A well forms on her brow. Muriel has been a beautiful woman since her youth, and age hasn't dimmed that beauty but altered it. Even when she frowns, she looks noble and not terribly concerned by the state of the world outside, as if all that matters is what happens within her own walls.

"Yes, my dear, a project. I believe I've found you a student."

The frown deepens. "Are you picking my student body for me now?"

"No. I've granted you freedom that is unparalleled among my subjects. Until now, you've more or less done as you pleased. I now request your help, in return for one or two small favors the crown may have granted you over the years." His tone is mocking, but it contains an edge that Muriel can't miss. _One or two small favors_ doesn't cover half of what he has done for her, foolish woman.

Her mouth thins, but she nods, having heard the silent rebuke. "Of course, Your Majesty. What am I to teach this student?"

"Everything you do."

Dead silence greets this announcement. He may as well have just announced to a packed church congregation that he's not wearing any pants.

"I would not dare guess at Your Majesty's motives," Muriel says slowly, "but-"

"You are very wise," Jareth replies in a tone that subtly hints it is time to shut up.

Muriel ignores the latent warning. "-what you're proposing is dangerous and probably impossible."

He shrugs. "You survived."

"Others haven't."

"She will. Or she won't. But I think she will."

"So it's a girl, is it?"

"Oh, no. A woman."

"Age?"

"Why don't you ask her when you meet her?"

"Will you tell me anything about her at all?"

"No. But you're to teach her everything. Work her hard." His sudden grin is diabolical. "You always did like those sermonizing little Edwardian stories about wicked headmistresses working their young charges like slaves."

He stands a little too quickly, and the room swims. Jareth catches himself before Muriel notices and makes a show of donning his gloves.

"How bad is it in the Underground?" she asks sadly, and Jareth finds himself annoyed that she's not as blind as he'd hoped. Aren't mortals supposed to go blind and senile in their mature years? He's taught her too well.

"Still not as bad as my infamous temper," he quips with a lightness he doesn't feel. He's exhausted and, not for the first time, regrets offering Sarah another chance to make a stupid wish. It would have been far easier to find another loophole and just take her - but no, he had to be swayed by the promise of the hunt. _I will never underestimate her again. _"Teach her, and then I shall work with her."

"You're assuming a lot."

"_**You**_ are forgetting your station!" Jareth snaps, and the earth trembles at his words. The fine china on the credenza rattle in their berths. The potted plants sway from the ceiling. Something in the foyer shatters, then several other things follow suit with a staccato of glass meeting tile:_ Kshh, kshh, kshh!_ Outside, car alarms begin to shriek, one after another, like a row of landmines setting each other off.

Terrified, Muriel pinches her mouth shut and bows her head. The earth immediately settles. The cars outside continue to wail, oblivious to the sudden, awful stillness.

He leaves by the front door without saying goodbye or cleaning up any of his dirty dishes. The cat, which hasn't moved since his arrival, growls at him from beneath the porch. He ignores the frightened animal and lets himself out the front gate – the gate inlaid with ancient symbols meant to keep out creatures such as himself. Up and down the street, Muriel's neighbors run from their homes to ask each other if they're alright, is everyone okay, did they feel that tremor? Brooklyn doesn't get many earthquakes._  
_

The bay sends a salty breeze that rustles the trees up and down 7th Avenue. Jareth allows himself to melt into the wind and far away.

* * *

_To be continued_

**Author's notes:**

I like the questions people have been asking me about this story. If there's sufficient interest, I'll compile them and their answers into a FAQ that I'll include at the end for everyone else to read, along with the notes I kept while writing this. I take notes and sketch out my ideas before I begin projects.


	9. Cleverness is not wisdom

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Rated: M

Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

"The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet."

- C. Joybell C.

* * *

**Neo:** You ever have that feeling where you're not sure if you're awake or still dreaming?  
**Choi:** Mmm, all the time. It's called mescaline. It's the only way to fly.

- The Matrix

* * *

I think I'm dead ... until an obnoxious beeping noise rips me back to the land of the living. I crack an eyelid and immediately regret it. My eyeballs feel like they're melting. _There is no way anyone can feel this bad and still be alive. _Half-blind and dizzy with nausea, I swat my alarm clock off the nightstand, which doesn't stop the horrible shrieking noise, not until I reach behind the furniture and rip the cord out of the outlet.

I've never had a hangover because I've never been drunk, but I feel a late pang of sympathy for every person who ever showed up for my class looking like an asphyxiated rat. _How can I feel this bad? I didn't even drink last night before -_

The previous night resurfaces in my memory with the speed and ferocity of a train. Oh, my God. Last night really happened. I chewed Ben out and got followed home by a ... a ... I can't name it. If I name it, it'll become real.

Too stunned to move, I lay in bed for what feels like hours but what probably only lasts minutes. When the Labyrinth reentered my life, I'd accepted it pretty well, I think. Some part of me always knew that the Goblin King and his strange kingdom were all real, but I'd never given serious thought to what else lurks out there in the shadows. The idea that real monsters can follow me home makes me want to barricade myself in my bathroom for the rest of my life.

The beeping noise starts up again, and I'm awake enough to realize it's coming from the living room. The aggression I took out on my alarm clock appears to have been misguided. The sound is faint but just annoying enough that I won't be able to go back to sleep until I kill it. Oh, my cell phone. I vaguely recall dumping my purse on the floor when I came home, before or after I latched the door.

My brain swims as I bolt upright in bed. _I abandoned Reimi and Shayna at the bar!_ As I scramble for the door, winding the bed sheet around my body as I go, the room cants sideways. I collide messily with a wall before successfully reaching the den.

Boudica sits on her bed next to the TV, her eyes tracking my every move. She looks pensive. The guts of my purse lay scattered across the floor, along with dirt and the remains of a plant someone knocked over. (The dog? The goblins? Me?) It takes a minute of hunting, but I finally find my cell under the television stand. Goblin tooth marks mar the casing. I growl a little. _Lucky, you and I are going to have a chat about respecting people's belongings._

Several messages await me. The screen lights up as I hold it and I answer, cringing. "Hello?"

"Sarah?"

I'm already running into the bedroom to find clothes, but I can't help wincing at the tone in Shayna's voice. "Shayna, I am so sorry. Where are you guys? Are you okay?"

"Are _**we**_ okay? _**We**_ are fine, but we had to crash Rico's last night. What about _**you**_? We pounded on the front door but you never answered."

_They came all the way back to New Brunswick to make sure I was alive? Oh, my God. _"Sorry, Shayna, I can't –"

"Sarah?" a gravely voice calls out from the wall near my closet. I whirl in fright, almost dropping both phone and bedsheet. A creature stands on the other side of my full-length mirror, looking about as surprised and confused as I feel. It's too big and too stout to be a goblin, dressed in threadbare clothes and a leather cap, with a honking red nose and gnarled hands.

I know this creature. I know him.

"Hedgewart!" I yelp, delighted.

"Sar-" My words sink in a second too late, and whatever he's about to say next gets lost in a sputter of righteous indignation. "Hoggle! **_ Hog-gle!_**"

"Sarah?" Far away, Shayna sounds angry. "Is someone there with you?"

My jaw's working, but it takes two beats before any sound comes out. I can't tear my eyes from the apparition in my mirror. "No. No, there isn't."

"Ben didn't come home with you, did he?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Hey, don't get snippy with me, I'm just saying – first you get upset last night and bail on us, then we get locked out, and now I heard a guy's voice there with you."

"Shayna, it's the TV. There's nobody here." Hoggle look ready to argue, but I frantically gesture at him to be silent.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! I had a rough night, but I'm not stupid!"

"Chill, girl, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on. You scared the crap out of us. I've never seen you like that before. I know Ben never … I know things ended badly last time."

I try to match the olive branch in Shayna's voice. "Yeah … but I cut the cord last night before I left the cafe. And _**yes**_, he stayed behind."

"Sorry, babe. But you gotta admit, you acted weird. Did you stop to wonder how Ben just so _**happened** _to be at the same bar as us?"

My heart sinks into my toes. "Do I want to know?"

"The bartender was his brother at Phi Beta Sigma. Apparently, Ben put out a call to everyone he knew that he was visiting New York and wanted to find you. When you walked in, Jaime rang Ben up and told him to come over."

I groan. "How'd you find this out?"

"Reimi's persuasive."

_Ha!_ I've seen Reimi interrogate people before. My attention snaps back to Shayna in time to hear her say, "-and then the front door was locked, and we had to harass Rico for sleeping space since Reimi's roommate's boyfriend was in town."

"Was Rico mad?"

"No, but I already owe him a favor from last week, so now I feel like a bum."

"God, Shayna, I'm sorry. Yesterday was awful, start to finish. I gotta get dressed and … and figure out some things. You going to work today?"

"Same as every day. Call me later, alright? Let me know you're okay."

"Uh huh." I hang up and sway messily in place for a moment. It could be a dream. Could be. I slowly, slowly peek over my shoulder. The dwarf still stands inside my mirror, looking more than a little flummoxed. "Hoggle. Your name is Hoggle."

He harrumphs. "Doesn't take you long, does it?"

"Sorry, I've been remembering a lot of things the last month. I remember you were my guide, when I was a kid, when I went through the Labyrinth. You helped me."

Hoggle looks uncomfortable. "I did what I was s'posed to, missy."

He also betrayed me to Jareth. I think Hoggle remembers this the same time I do, because we regard each other solemnly for a long moment. Hoggle looks away first. "Yeah, I guess you did," I finally say. "What are you doing inside my mirror?"

"Me?" Hoggle looks far too innocent to be genuine. "Heard tell from some little birdies you had a nasty jolt last night, that's what."

I raise an eyebrow at the goblins, who believe themselves to be crowded surreptitiously at my door. They immediately hide at my glance, and I knock the door shut with my foot. I feel sick. "What was that thing outside?"

"Do I look like a magician? That's a question best left for You Know Who."

"Jareth."

Hoggle ducks his head at the floor. "You shouldn't say his name," he mumbles. "Well, I guess _**you** _can."

The Hoggle I remember from childhood was fearless before the Goblin King, and it was he who blurted Jareth's name to me in the first place. Hoggle's changed. I've changed. Everything has, I guess. I feel sad and I don't know why. "You never came back, after my victory party. You and ... and the others."

"Who, Didymus and Ludo?"

Faces well up from the recesses of my subconscious. A fox with a flowing mustache and a patch over one eye. A great hairy beast with a sweet disposition, a horned monster who cried when upset and who could call rocks. Didymus and Ludo. No, _**Sir** _Didymus. He was knighted, he deserved the title. It's just like Hoggle to forget it.

When I look at Hoggle again, I must look like a lunatic, I'm grinning so big. "Yes. Sir Didymus and Ludo. Exactly."

"You stopped dreaming about us, same as most little girls, though they forget earlier than you did. You**_ grew up_** is what happened. It happens to the best of 'em."

There's a sore spot on my cheek that I can't stop rubbing. I can feel my face, feel my feet, feel the floorboards beneath them, so I know this is all real, yet it's taking my mind a while to catch up. "What's His Majesty up to?" It feels like the only safe thing to say.

"You'd know better'n anyone. Why don't you ask him?"

"Sorry, Hoggle, I don't exactly have him on speed dial." I can't help sounding petulant.

The sound that erupts from Hoggle might be a snort. "Now you're just being ignorant, is what. So much for you." He turns and starts to leave. His figure shrinks as he moves farther away, into the empty whiteness of the mirror.

"Wait."

He looks back at me. I get the sense he's tired. "Yes, ma'am?"

"If you see His Majesty, tell him what the goblins told you, about what I saw last night. Something's going on that I don't understand, and it frightens me. I need allies right now." I'm hesitant to call His Nibs a friend, but he's the only person who understands what I've been through, from the very beginning: the Labyrinth, my travels, my dreams. There's something very intimate about sharing one's dreams. Reimi and Shayna, my two best friends, thought I was making up Toby's kidnapping. Neither one's a magician, nor can they help me with monsters. They've never lost someone the way I lost Mom, either.

The look on His Majesty's face when I made my wish ... he looked as if I'd shot him. I recognized that face. It mirrored what I've felt ever since that night when Mom's suicide made the news. The Goblin King is a trickster, yet in a perverse way, I trust him more than I do anyone else. We've both lost dearly and, as a rule, the Goblin King is so openly manipulative that it's almost like honesty.

No, for better or worse, I'm stuck with him. I get the sense I've even won his grudging respect; I'm annoyed to say he's won mine, or else I'd never have envied his wisdom so much. Hard to dislike the guy properly when he has some good qualities. I try not to think about the softness in his eyes when I got scared after making my wish, or the warmth of his breath against my cheek. Doing so confuses me, and I hate feeling confused.

Meanwhile, the dwarf in my mirror sighs and rubs his scalp like my father does whenever Toby or I nettle him. The comparison seems ridiculous in my head, but I absolutely refuse to smile. It would be terrible if Hoggle thought I were laughing at him. "Alright," Hoggle mutters, "but His Majesty probably knows all about this situation already."

I shudder at the memory of the man with the melted face. "So much the better."

"Sarah? Whatever's going on, I bet you dollars to dung beetles this is just the beginning. Strange things've been afoot ever since you left."

"Strange even for the Labyrinth?"

"Well, nobody like you'd ever shown up His Majesty before."

I wave a dismissive hand. "It was just a game, and I won."

"There's consequences for everything, Sarah."

* * *

A shower wakes me up, coffee renews my courage, and the sunlight outside almost melts away the nightmarish memories of last night. Almost. I cast a feverish glance at the sidewalk where the … that man stood and watched me, right before I puked. In the daylight, surrounded by joggers and shoppers and cops checking parking meters, the street seems ludicrously normal, as if last night were nothing but a bad movie.

Biting my lip, I turn away and walk east until I find a deli with an outdoor terrace where I can read a paper with my breakfast.

I have no job to hurry to, no partner to worry about, no family obligations. Apart from next month's rent, I'm beholden to nothing. There's something oddly satisfying about that. _When was the last time I just read a paper and watched the world go by?_ I lazily stretch and munch my bagel as I scan the crowd.

I cast a cursory glance at the Want ads. _Medical office, experience needed – don't have any, so that's out. Receptionist – no money. Personal assistant? That sounds interesting … Flexible hours, benefits, "strictest confidentiality required." Bet it's a celebrity. Geez, it's in Brooklyn. Do I want to travel to Brooklyn every day?_ I massage my temples, tired. _No sense turning down an opportunity right out of the gate._

I toss my garbage and head back into the sunshine. _I don't need to make any decisions right now. Let's see what the head hunter says._

It's a short jaunt into the city by train, and a pleasant walk from Penn Station to the office. You never hear birdsong in Manhattan due to the clanking of trucks and the beeping of garage alarms as cars back out into the street. But today I notice blue birds flitting about in the trees on the sidewalk. On instinct, I glance up, wondering if I'll see an owl, but of course it's too early for that.

* * *

The recruiting agency is a small midtown office sporting plastic plants and smelling faintly of mothballs and cat piss. The other nervous young people in the waiting room wear black suits and frowns. I'm reminded of a funeral parlor, and I'm tapped out on funerals.

"Sarah?" My recruiter appears. Nicole's a year younger than me and always terrified of losing her job, which seems a stupid thing to be afraid of now. (Once you actually lose your job, or your little brother is kidnapped by goblins, or a god chooses you for his own personal toy, most normal fears seem downright mundane.) Between Nicole's skinny frame and the anxious way her hands constantly flutter, she puts me to mind of a hummingbird. "I'm so sorry to hear about your job! Thanks for, um, stopping by."

Her gaze lingers on my battered leather jacket and boots, which I ignore. Nicole has my resume, has seen me interview … at this point, I don't give a damn about protocol. I want comfort.

I shrug. "Minor setback. You said you had a job come in?"

"Oh, yeah, just yesterday. C'mon back." She leads me to a closet at the end of the hall. I'm through the door when I realize it's Nicole's office. I smile politely and cram myself into a bucket chair next to the coat rack. "Have you ever been a personal assistant?"

"Nope."

"Really? It's been a while since I reviewed your resume, but I could've sworn you were a personal assistant at one point."

"No, never."

"Huh. Weird. Well, given your experience, I still think this might be a good match for you. Got a personal assistant position in Brooklyn. Long-time client, very professional. Bit of a stickler for details."

A memory tugs at the recesses of my mind. "Brooklyn? This job wouldn't require 'strictest confidentiality', would it?"

Nicole blinks. "Actually, yes. Why do you ask?"

I still have the morning paper tucked under one arm, so I show Nicole the ad that caught my eye over breakfast. "I found your job this morning."

The hummingbird is back in force: Nicole begins worrying her bottom lip, and her fingers drum a concerto on the desk. "Did you respond to the ad?" In my imagination, Nicole's commission does a suicidal swan dive right out the window onto the roof of a taxicab parked on Madison Avenue. Happily, Mom's manner of death hasn't changed my macabre sense of humor. Sometimes you have to laugh at tragedy or else you'll cry.

"No. I wasn't sure if it was my thing. I've never been a personal assistant, and it's kind of far-"

"Oh. Of course. Well, I have another position – office manager – and they're interviewing this afternoon if you're free."

I wanted to go to the park and draw, but … _groceries cost money_, I think. So I force a smile. "Of course I'm free."

* * *

When I run home, the first thing I do is stuff a business suit into a garment bag and high heels into my purse. But when I go to print my resume, the printer won't work. A shredded cord pokes out from the wall, a testament to goblin handiwork.

"_**LUCKY!**_" My scream is high enough to call dogs. Boudica, moodier than ever, grumbles from her bed but doesn't move. Hidden voices around the living room giggle. I cradle my head and resolve to deal with them later.

* * *

So that's how I embark for my interview: with a garment bag slung over one shoulder and a memory stick for the clerk at UPS to print out my resume. I look at the rising sun and worry a piece of gum against my jaw, figuring I have two hours before my interview. I can do this.

Except the electricity at the UPS store at Penn Plaza blows the moment I walk in the door. I freeze on the threshold and back out the way I've come, suspicious, but I see no sign of goblins.

I arrive at the UPS on 23rd Street to find yellow tape and emergency personnel. ("Can ya believe it, miss? Not every day a piano falls through the ceiling. Crazy shit, right?")

The moment I approach the UPS on 8th Street, half a dozen squad cars roll up and a herd of cops charge into the building, guns drawn. I don't bother stopping, merely whip out my phone. "Nicole? You're not going to believe this … can you please email these people my resume? I'll explain later, I promise."

* * *

I have 45 minutes left, so I return to the subway and hop on the 2 going uptown. Yet between one moment and the next, somehow I'm suddenly on the N heading across the East River. Every time I try disembarking, I'm either squished by the crowd or the door shuts on me.

People say there's a moment in every city dweller's life when the reality of living in a garbage-infested concrete playground hits home, and the only logical response is to go pure bugshit. This is my moment. When the last door slams in my face, I completely lose any grip I've had on my internal safety valve. "This is unreal! _**Unreal!**_ What the hell is _**wrong**_ with this city?"

With a lurch, I realize I'm broadcasting my internal melt-down and, it being New York, everyone else in the car watches me with curiosity but no real alarm.

"I been wondering that for twenty damn years," one woman opines with the sincere conviction of a religious convert.

"Amen!" shouts someone else.

I cradle my head again.

* * *

At the next stop, I'm able to fight my way off, and I don't stop running until I'm above ground. The first things I see are a Chinese restaurant, a laundromat belching steam, and a sign for Park Slope Law Offices. Oh, this is rich.

I groan and pull out my phone. "Nicole? Yeah, it's me. Listen, that interview in midtown? It's not going to work out. That job in Brooklyn wouldn't happen to be interviewing today, would it? Hypothetically speaking."

Nicole makes a sound that indicates she's about to give birth. "You're kidding me, right?" I envision Nicole's hands fluttering about again, like sparrows in love. "Fine, I'll call ahead and say you're coming. Please don't screw this up. Please. I'm serious."

"Promise. You're the greatest."

"Sarah, I'm serious. I'm begging."

"Pinky swear."

I hang up feeling relieved and very good about myself, but it's another block before I realize that I've left the garment bag on the train.

* * *

As a general rule, Brooklyn doesn't boast the skyscrapers that Manhattan does. My destination is a squat brick office building that looks like it hasn't been renovated since the Titanic sank. It sits on the corner of a busy intersection across from a church. A black fire escape, ugly and solid, marches down the front of the building and gives out above the grocer's on the first floor, where a sign declares the store is closed for renovations.

_What a shit hole._ Park Slope is one of the ritziest areas of Brooklyn. There's a steak house and swanky-looking jeweler's across the street, next to a French bistro and an upscale salon. This building is a surprising eyesore in the midst of all these posh digs.

I pop off my sunglasses and enter the lobby with a sigh. This is going to be one of the more uncomfortable interviews of my life, I can tell. Here I am, looking like I'm on my way to a club, no resume, showing up to a job I had no interest in until five minutes ago, and only because I somehow got lost in a city I've known since I was five-years old. Goblins are involved in this, I just know it. If their king instigated it, I'm going to hurt him. I don't know how one hurts a god, not physically, anyway. I'll have to hit him in the ego. Shaving his head springs to mind.

Do you remember the ballroom scene in _The Shining?_ All those glass light fixtures and brass trim? The lobby kind of looks like that, of course minus the blood and a postal Jack Nicholson. The silver-plated mirror on the wall has black spots and fingerprints, but otherwise the place looks surprisingly well cared for, if antiquated by eighty years.

There's only one elevator, standing alone in the center of the lobby and guarded by an iron door. You still see elevators like that in Paris apartment buildings. I don't think I've ever seen one in New York. I have to squeeze the brass buttons super hard with my thumb to make the elevator move, and it descends to the first floor with a boom that thunders throughout the whole building.

As the outer door opens, I'm unsurprised to see a retractable gate. I push it open and close it behind me. The floor is red carpet, the walls outlined in matching red and gold. It must have been very pretty, once, but the paint is flaking now. When I press the button for the 5th floor, the elevator jumps with a shudder that makes you think you're about to plummet into the basement.

The elevator doesn't chime upon arrival like modern elevators do, just groans to an unsteady halt. I squeeze my way past the gate and find myself in a long hallway. Several doors are boarded shut, but the light fixtures here are new, the bulbs very bright. I knock on the door of suite 505 and refuse to fidget. I spat out my gum a while ago, so now I settle for chewing on my tongue.

The door opens, and I'm nearly blinded by the light, unexpected in this old place. A male voice asks, "Yes?"

My hand has flown up to shield my eyes, so I still can't see the guy well. "Uh, I'm here for the interview?" Too late, I realize I've twisted the statement into a question, which makes me sound like an airhead sorority girl.

"For the job?"

"Yeah. Yes."

"This way, please."

He admits me into a waiting room overflowing with people. A rich Turkish rug overlays the hardwood floor. A grandfather clock (its face rimmed in brass and ivory, definitely a relic from the Victorian era) _tick-tick-ticks_ away in the corner. Somewhere nearby, soft music plays. The only word that springs to mind is _genteel_. I feel like I've stepped backwards to a time when ladies wore corsets and sipped tea with their pinkies in the air.

The folks sitting in the chairs are decidedly modern, though, and I see _People_ magazine and the New York Times on the ornate coffee table. Are these all clients? I see men and women, old people and young, most in business suits, a few in their Sunday best, and a **_lot_ **of briefcases. My heart drops into my shoes.

The gentleman who answered the door is a thirty-something guy in a no-nonsense suit. He has a warm brown face with freckles, but the suit screams lawyer. I can't place his accent, but he sounds like my Social Psych professor in college, Dr. Yordan, who was Puerto Rican.

"Thanks for coming, everyone," the lawyer says by way of introduction. "We appreciate your interest. The interviews will be starting shortly but first, a few ground rules."

_**Everyone** _is here for an interview? I don't have a briefcase, or a suit, or a resume. I'm wearing a leather jacket and jeans. I just bombed out of graduate school. What could I possibly offer these people? Can I leave, or would that be rude?

"First, we ask that you turn off all phones and portable devices. You might have discovered already that electricity in this building is very fickle." The lawyer smiles warmly, as if sharing a private joke. I'm relieved to see all the other candidates look just as confused as I feel. "Second, we ask that you stick to this room for the duration of your stay. This is an old building and the other tenants can be ... fussy about their privacy."

That sounds foreboding. The lawyer doesn't notice the awkward glances from the room, merely consults a clipboard and calls, "Diana Roberts and Rigoberto Gonzalez?" Two people stand up. She looks uncertain. He looks bored. The lawyer sends the guy down a small hallway and takes the woman into another room. She leaves within minutes. I guess it didn't go well.

Rather than wait for Rigoberto Gonzalez to return, the lawyer calls another name from the list and takes that person back into his office. It isn't until the lawyer is letting go his third person that Rigoberto comes back, and he looks _**pissed**_. He doesn't look at any of us, doesn't even thank the lawyer, just grabs his stuff and storms out, slamming the door behind him. Every picture frame on the wall rattles.

The lawyer doesn't flinch, as if he'd expected that. "Sarah Williams?"

"Present." I can't believe that just came out. Jesus Christ, Williams.

A smile dances on the edge of the lawyer's lips, but he manages to rein himself in. He doesn't give my clothes a second glance. This is a guy who's not easily rattled. "This way, please."

He shows me into the office. It's surprisingly big, with green wallpaper, dark furniture, and a matching sofa. The room screams money. "Why don't you take a seat? I'll be right back."

I nod, wary. After he leaves, I inspect the room. Oil landscapes and framed degrees cover the walls. The most surprising feature is a carved children's toy box, which is covered in dolls and stuffed animals. It's so out of place in this professional, almost stuffy room that I can't figure out why it'd be here.

The door suddenly opens, but fortunately I'm already seated before the desk. "Well!" the lawyer exclaims as he strides in. "Thanks for waiting. We're not used to high volumes of people. I'm Rafael, and I'm helping Ms. Foster today."

I reply, "Right." Because until this moment, I didn't even know the name of my potential employer or the business.

"Coffee?"

"I'm good, thank you."

"Great, let's get started. Did you bring your resume?"

How embarrassing. "No ... sorry. I had an accident on the way over here." _An acute case of goblins. You know how it is._

"I see." From the tone in his voice, he clearly doesn't. "Did you hear about this position from the newspaper ad, or ...?"

"Nicole from the staffing agency sent me."

"Ah. What's your experience?"

Out in the waiting room, another person storms out, slamming the door behind them. The pictures in this office rattle against the wall.

Rafael doesn't even blink. "... as an assistant, I mean?"

The interview goes downhill from there. I'm not dressed the part, am completely unprepared, and have spent the last ten years living out of a suitcase. By this point, a third person has stormed out the front door - the slamming is unmistakable - and the soft music has gotten louder, to the point where it's getting obnoxious.

"Well, I think that's all the questions for today." Rafael adjusts his glasses and doesn't look me in the eye, and I know I've failed the interview. No loss. I didn't want this job anyway. "I'll walk you out."

"People sound plenty jumpy out there," I say lamely, feeling foolish.

"Interviewing tends to make folks nervous, I think."

"I'm guessing the music set them on edge."

Rafael is inches away from touching the doorknob, but my comment freezes him in his tracks. He turns and looks at me as if he's never seen me before. "What did you say?"

"Oh, sorry," I mumble. "I hope you weren't the one who picked the song. It's just ... so repetitive. I can see people getting annoyed by it. What?"

The lawyer hasn't stopped staring at me. In fact, he looks like he's finally _**seeing** _me, if that makes sense. "You **_did_ **come for the assistant job, right?"

"Yes." I suddenly feel defensive and don't know why.

I can see the gears turning in Rafael's head. "Follow me." He leads me back into the waiting room, where everyone looks more anxious than ever. But instead of showing me the door, he points down the little hallway. "Down there. All the way down, first door on the right."

Incredulous, I stare at him a beat too long, then finally realize he's serious. I head down the hallway with my hands in my pockets, wondering when I can go home. This hallway must run the entire length of the building, and the old floorboards groan beneath my heels. I find the door easily; a rotating window perches atop it. You don't see those anymore. The window's ajar, and through it I hear the joyous trill of birds.

I knock once.

"Enter."

I step into a small office. It reminds me of my guidance counselor's, only Judy's office always looked like it had just survived a nuclear holocaust. This room is small but spotless. Bookshelves line the walls. A teapot brews on a hot plate next to a sink, which is next to the closet (instead of a door, it's covered by a floor-length black curtain). Now I know where the birdsong is coming from - there's a huge window of frosted glass overlooking the juniper trees outside. The window's open, letting in a cool, wafting breeze.

The office could be that of a college professor's: very quaint and comfortable. I'm vaguely reminded of the warm, earthy cave abode that C.S. Lewis dreamed up for his faun, Mr. Tumnus, when he invites Lucy Pevensie home for tea and cake.

There's a much older woman seated at the desk, a giant wooden monstrosity in the center of the room. The woman herself is neither small nor large but looks as if she could withstand a strong gale, as if she sprang directly from the earth itself. She's pale, with steel-blond hair that matches the flintiness in her eyes when she glances up from whatever she's writing. If she were a literary character, she would definitely be the White Witch.

"Close the door." When I do so, she indicates the chair before her desk. "Sit." There's a trace of London in her voice that indicates she hasn't been there in many years but hasn't yet lost its memory, the same way you can't quite shake a cold.

Having no other choice, I sit.

She frowns at me for a moment, as if I've already disappointed her, but then she sighs. "You're younger than all the others."

"I look young for my age," I respond. It's true; I still get carded in bars all the time. Mom looked young, too, or at least she appeared to. I don't know how much of her beauty was genetic and how much was surgery. I'll never know now. I'll never know a lot of things about her.

"Sometimes that can prove useful. Not so much others." The woman takes in every inch of me. "What's your name?"

"Sarah Williams."

"Ah, so you're the one the papers have been on about. The spoiled, forgotten love-child of Hollywood _prima donna_ Linda Young, the one who's trying to break into the business riding on her mother's coat-tails." She smiles as I bristle. "I assume most of that is, how they say, bullshit?"

I'm trying not to grind my teeth. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes."

"Tea?"

"No."

The woman goes to the hot plate and gets herself a cup. With her back still to me, she says, "Tell me why you want to be my assistant."

"I'm smart, dependable, and can make problems disappear."

"Then you should have become a mob enforcer." I hear a cautious sip as she tests the tea. "**_I_ **need an assistant - someone who is good with sums, who can articulate well, who can handle people, who is discrete. Most of all, someone who doesn't rattle easily. Your response didn't answer any of the questions in my head, which tells me you either don't have what it takes to be an assistant, or you do but don't know how to sell yourself."

"Salesmanship isn't everything," I counter.

"Salesmanship is **_everything_**," she returns, as if she were lobbing a ball back at my head. "No one in this world cares about you or the worthless subjects you studied in school. They want to know what value you can provide them, how you can make their lives easier. Until you prove your worth to the world, it won't take notice of you, nor should it. To expect otherwise is arrogance."

"Rafael didn't say anything about salesmanship during our interview." I'm totally screwing any chance I have of getting this job, I know it, but I'm still inwardly seething at this woman's callous comments about my mother and me, so I'm not feeling particularly charitable.

"Why would Rafael send you to me if he already interviewed you?" She stirs honey into her tea and adds more hot water.

"I don't know. He sent me here after I told him about the music in your waiting room."

The woman puts down the teapot a little harder than she needs to. When she turns back to me, she's frowning again. Given her consistent sour expression, I'm surprised her face hasn't stuck that way. "You heard the music?"

"Shouldn't everyone?"

"No."

I stare very closely at her, uncertain if she's making fun of me. "I'm a musician. Music doesn't play favorites."

"There's much you don't know about the world, Ms. Williams." The woman smiles. It's not a very nice smile. "It has been a long time since someone noticed that music. How does an unimaginative wisp of a girl hear it, I wonder, or end up applying to be my assistant in the first place, hmm?"

I give a lazy shrug. "I have a funny habit of finding trouble. I'm like a pig with truffles, only instead of truffles, I find bullshit."

She's not amused. "If you consistently find trouble, Ms. Williams, you may wish to consider that the only recurring variable is **_you_**." She looks me over again. "Look at you. You're the spitting image of your mother, with a crumb of her talent, though they say she didn't get as far as she did in Hollywood because of _**that**._"

In my mind's eye, I grab the teapot off the hotplate and break this bitch's face with it. But another part of me remembers every infuriating thing Jareth's ever said to me, and my hackles cool a bit. Life's not fair, but that's the way it is. So instead I respond with a smile that's a little too gleeful. "I can't imagine why you're having trouble finding help. You're a real charmer."

The woman narrows her flinty eyes at me. I've surprised her, somehow. I wish I knew how. "Are you comfortable with the nature of my work?"

"Rafael didn't explain what you do."

"At all?"

"I assumed you were a businesswoman."

"Hopeless. I'm a magician in service to the good city of New York."

I must not have heard her right. "Humans can do magic?"

"You're the first person to not assume I meant stage magic. That's somewhat impressive. And of course - haven't you read fairy tales?"

"Not in years. I thought only ... only, you know, faeries and gods could do that stuff."

"Don't be ridiculous."

I suddenly remember the man with the melted face. "What other beings are out there? Boogeymen? Vampires? Goblin Kings?" I don't mean that last one. It just ... slips out. As soon as I speak, I know I've said the wrong thing. Eyes flashing, she jumps from her chair as if a bee's stung her in the ass and pounds the desk with her fist.

"You're the one ... I can't believe this. Of all the people - why _**you?** _You're young and self-centered and totally unaware of what's going on."

"Hey-!"

"What are you to him?" she demands.

"Who?"

"Who do you think, girl? The Goblin King, of course!" I should deny it, but it's too late: my mouth's already flopped open in shock, which gives me away better than a signed confession. "I knew it. Why should the Goblin King, one of the most powerful creatures this world will ever see, care a whit for your education?" Her eyes narrow to slits. "Are you his lover?"

"What? No!"

"Please. The only reason I can think of for the Goblin King to give a damn about a mortal is for one of two reasons: either he's sleeping with them, or plans to. His Majesty has too many things to do running his own world."

"You know the Goblin King?"

"Haven't you been listening? Of course. Just this morning, he told me to take on a certain young woman as my pupil, saying that she'd arrive on my doorstep shortly. And now here you are, though I can't imagine why he'd stick his neck out for a little shrew like you."

"I'm not sleeping with him!" I answer vehemently. Oh. Of course. I asked for wisdom, to know the things His Majesty knows, and he definitely knows magic. Of course he would procure a teacher for me. "... He's fulfilling a promise. A wish I made."

"You took a **_wish_ **from the Goblin King?" She makes it sound as if I've just confessed to multiple murders. "You took a ... you are by far the stupidest creature who ever lived, by God."

"Hey, I didn't cut a deal with him, alright? I won the wish from him fair and square. A boon from battle, he called it."

"Stupid **_and_ **delusional. No one defeats the Goblin King. Ever."

"I did. When I was fifteen. I ran his Labyrinth, and I beat him, and I pulled his world down."

The woman sinks back into her chair. For the first time since I've entered her office, she looks struck dumb. She stares at me for a long moment. The birds outside start singing again. Finally, she says, "So you're the Champion of the Labyrinth. I'd thought it all a silly story dreamed up by goblins."

I'm not above making a mocking face at her. Maybe I really am a child. The woman doesn't react at all, and then I realize how serious she is. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Muriel Foster."

"Well, Muriel, I can't say it's been a thrill meeting you, but I can say that this has, hands down, been the most interesting interview I've ever been on. Not that that's saying much."

She quirks a smile. It almost looks like her lips are fighting not to curl upwards, as if happiness would be an insult to their very being. "Likewise ... Sarah."

"Anyway, I'm gonna go. My war dance routine is tapped for today." I shake myself off and head for the door, then turn on the threshold. "His Majesty never told me he had a friend."

Muriel hasn't moved from her desk. I've seen her expression before on a neighbor's crotchety old cat, after the family brought home a rambunctious puppy. Her eyes are locked on mine. "I've always been under the impression that he doesn't have any."

"He has you."

"I'm not a friend." Annoyance seeps into her tone. "The Goblin King is my master. I belong to him just as surely as your shoes and jacket belong to you. And if you're wondering why he ordered me, of all people, to train you, it's because he understands the fine quality of my magic."

"How do you figure?"

"Because **_he_** is the one who taught _**me**_." She doesn't smile, even as I blink stupidly at her. "Good-bye, Sarah."

* * *

Everyone in the waiting room turns to regard me curiously as I go. I'm the first person to leave without freaking out and slamming doors. Apparently that makes me an anomaly in this place.

I don't make it to the elevator before my phone rings. This startles me; I'd turned my phone off per Rafael's orders, yet somehow it's on again. I thought phones didn't work inside the building? I hesitatingly answer and hear Nicole, who raves about how amazing I am, that she's never gotten such a fast reply from a client, that I got the job.

"I did?" Even to my own ears, I sound dazed.

"Yeah! I knew you would, too! I told you, if you wore that blue suit today, you'd look like a million bucks. I'll send you the paperwork this afternoon, alright? Bye-eeee!" She hangs up without even asking if I want the job.

"Sarah?"

I turn. Rafael's waiting patiently in the hall behind me. "I got the job?" I ask, incredulous.

"Not really. Muriel thinks you're more suited to magic than answering phones. She's agreed to take you on as her apprentice."

_What the hell?_ "I never asked to be an apprentice of anything. I came looking for work."

"Oh, if it's work you want, you needn't worry about **_that_**. Muriel will work you into the ground."

He acts like this is a side benefit. I feel like I'm losing my mind. "But she hates me."

Rafael smiles, revealing perfect teeth. "Don't let it trouble you."

Which is about as far from a denial as you can get.

* * *

To be continued.

If there were to be a cast for this story, it would look like this:

Jareth the Goblin King - David Bowie

Sarah Williams - Jennifer Connelly

Reimi Yamanaka - Keiko Agena

Shayna O'Neill - Rosario Dawson

Cornelius (Jareth's butler) - Stephen Frye

The grandmotherly demon whom Jareth decapitates in Chapter 3 - Betty White

Ben Whitlock - Jensen Ackles

Linda Young - Demi Moore

Toby Williams - Dakota Goyo

Rafael - Don Omar

Muriel Foster - Vanessa Redgrave


	10. The Tower

Fledgling

by J.R. Godwin

Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. There's no money being made off of this.

* * *

_Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall._

-Proverbs 16:18

* * *

_Do you think of me?_

_Where am I now?_

_Baby, where do I sleep?_

_Feel so good but I'm old._

_2,000 years of chasing's taking its toll._

-Kings of Leon

* * *

As everyone knows, the best place to set a story is an asylum or a battlefield. There's something poetically tragic about people losing their heads.

Before the advent of modern psychiatry, the mentally ill were sequestered away in prisons and the basements of public buildings. They died lonely, ignoble deaths, often at the hands of other inmates, very curable diseases, or broken hearts. It was said that if you didn't enter mad, you soon would be.

And little wonder! Asylums are imposing, lonely places, even well into the 21st century when you can no longer get away with torturing lunatics. They remind me too much of my castle, madhouses. In the wintertime, the wind at home whistles through the cracks and rattles the eaves. The goblins hide when this happens. They're afraid of the dark, and they hate the cold. On such gloomy afternoons, I'll huddle before a fireplace and fall asleep with a goblin or two on my feet, only to awaken hours later with a crick in my neck and an ache in my chest.

This is why, whenever I am not fulfilling my sovereign duties, I'm fleeing my world for some place a little more hospitable, a little more fiery. SoHo has been fitting the bill rather nicely the last few decades. There's always something delicious to eat in SoHo, and new music to hear, and more often than not a new body to warm my bed. The human world is a strange place, but it's far sweeter than mine.

Well, for the most part. I have never liked the madhouses.

* * *

How do you measure time?

If you're human, you probably measure it in days. By the number of breakfasts you've had. By your life stages. High school, college, first job, first marriage, first child. A lot of firsts.

When you're immortal, it's difficult to measure firsts. Time stretches out so much that you become less picky with the importance of things, because they all become important to you. You're not limited to a century of life or less, so you can afford to be generous with your memories.

Which of my lovers was the most important to me? I cannot say. They all made me smile, all made my long stretch of life more bearable, all whispered to me in the dark of their dreams and joys. They've all brought me to the brink, too, that transcendental post-orgasmic state when you can't think and your heart (for just a moment) has stopped. The French have a phrase for it:_ la petite mort_, or the little death. Lying in my lovers' arms has been the closest I will ever come to dying. It's a bittersweet release.

That's another trait my lovers have shared: they've all died and laid rotting in the Earth. Most are past rotting by this point, have fallen away to dust and dreams. No one remembers their names anymore save me, the silent mourner adrift in a sea of time. It's an eternal vigil.

I tell myself that I will never take another human lover, because it hurts too much to lose them. I tell myself that I miss the sex, but since Sarah has reentered the picture, I've begun to wonder if I've actually loved them. Perhaps I am capable of love after all, and I try to dominate and control others out of a desperate need to control _something_ in my long, immortal life. The constant loss is maddening.

I could take a new lover from among my fellow gods. Surely that wouldn't be difficult. I've done it before, and so have many other immortals. You've heard the stories of Zeus and his prowess among women, human and god alike, yes? (And, oh my, how his wife hates him. You can't imagine the rows.)

Yet I keep finding myself drawn back to the human world. There's something delicious about humans, with their singled-focused joys and wonderful stories.

* * *

When you visit Manhattan Psychiatric Center, a security guard must page you through the front door. First you'll be asked for your photo identification, which I always show them (actually an illusion and slight of hand, and the guard will nod at my imaginary licence that only he can see). The guard will scan his plastic badge and punch in a code on the keypad to open the door. All the doors in the facility are opened this way. No exceptions.

Then the guard will order you to stand in line and wait to check in. Visiting hours are 7 PM to 8 PM every day. That's it. It's much stricter than a regular hospital, and guests must be 16 or older. No babies allowed. _Forget about the baby._

I always manage to skip the registration desk, though I typically walk through five locked doors rather than teleporting. It makes things less confusing for the humans on staff. Sometimes magick complicates things more than needed, and I don't like that. There's a great elegance in simplicity, in the beautiful movements of the body.

Today I wear a sweater and jeans, and my tousled hair is tied back from my face. I look like a very lean, very pale man, but just barely. Even magick can't hide the length of my teeth and the strange angles of my body. The guard has seen me a thousand times now, but he always shoots me a glance that one sees on a junkyard dog when it's deciding whether to bite. Humans, particularly the sensitive ones, tend not to like me.

On some level, far too deep for their consciousness to grasp, I smell of other dimensions, dreams, and desire. I will always set mortal creatures on edge, even if they can't articulate what exactly has them so ill at ease. I upset most mortal senses.

Every Tuesday at 7 PM I follow the same ritual: I appear on the tiny island on Manhattan's north end, and work my way past security, and go to the 7th floor. Then I walk three doors down from the lift and enter a room on the left. It's a private room, with a lonely bed and a solitary window.

And every Tuesday, I take the empty chair beside the bed, which holds a wizened old man, and I say, "Hello, Jimmy."

Jimmy, having not had any higher brain function for the better part of seven decades, never responds. His breathing apparatuses speak for him, wheezing and rattling and beeping.

But the soul is still here, and until the day when Jimmy dies, I will visit because of the affection I held for his brother. Many things have been said about the Goblin King (some good, some not so good), but let it never be said that I don't take care of what is mine.

* * *

Today when I enter the room, I see Jimmy sports a horrid new haircut. It looks like a nurse has taken a weed-whacker to his scalp.

"Oh, Jimmy," I murmur softly. "Poor lad. The girls will never want you now." The joke's already out of my mouth before I realize how terrible it is.

Jimmy was a handsome boy. It was clear, even when he was young enough to get away with playing tricks on his family, that he'd grow up to break many hearts. I can still see quite a bit of his brother in the mouth and ears. They always had generous mouths, the Ellingson family. Whenever Richard laughed, it was a very hungry laugh.

The spark of life is gone from Jimmy's mouth, of course. Now it's a slack, drooling line. I brush away the worst of the drool with a tissue and deposit it in the trash can beside the bed. There's nothing for it - Jimmy looks worse. It's been barely a month since my return to the human world, a month since the end of my 12-year disappearance as I frantically worked to repair the Underground. How is it possible for a human to age so rapidly in that time?

I take a shriveled, naked hand between both of my gloved hands. Liver spots mar the tissue-thin flesh. "I left you when you most needed an ally," I whisper. It's the closest I'll come to an apology. It doesn't matter, I suppose. Jimmy isn't going to respond, anyway.

One day, Sarah will be reduced to this. The thought turns the stomach. Perhaps it's for the best that she won't have me. Or perhaps it's all the more reason to take her back Underground sooner than later.

The discomfort in my stomach is getting worse. At first I think it's regret or grief, but then I realize it's hunger. The hunger moves up my spine and lodges itself behind my heart, and by now I've recognized it not as an emotion but a tingling of magick. Something is happening. Now all my senses are on full alert. This is a magick I've not experienced before, which makes it novel and exhilarating.

Someone is on the other end of this magick. I can feel another's life force tugging on mine, seeking me. The sensation is a distant precursor to sex, before you touch a person, before you kiss them. It's that moment when you spot them from across a crowded room and they ensnare you through the eyes. I feel a little drunk. My heart and groin ache.

On most days when I visit Jimmy, I'll read him the newspaper. Today is different. Once I feel this tingle, I can't concentrate enough to do anything, so I anxiously tap a foot and angrily stare at Jimmy as if he holds all the answers and is refusing to share. Fortunately, Jimmy is in no position to complain of my rudeness, and for the first time I'm glad.

Finally, after a half hour has passed and I'm about to leap out of my skin, I hear the lift outside chime. A nurse's confused voice echoes down the corridor.

"Are you sure it's this way?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely! I remember the way now. Thanks so much for your help." Manipulation and lies coated with a veneer of honey. I'd recognize Sarah's voice anywhere. I'm clutching the chair armrests as if driving nails. When Sarah enters the doorway, she stops dead at the sight of me. "Oh, my God."

I recover first. "No, just me. Won't you come in?"

Sarah stands firm in the doorway as if someone's hit her with a tire iron. Her hair is long and glossy black as always, like a raven's wing, and she wears a green wool pea coat, black slacks, and high-heeled shoes (the kind that always look lovely but painful). Her cheeks are ruddy from the cold outside. It's April, but winter has been stubbornly refusing to cede ground to spring these last few days.

The moment drags until I sigh with a bone-deep weariness. "Sarah, stop staring at me like I'm a monster and have a seat. Surely this isn't that difficult."

"What are you doing here?" she asks, ignoring my request completely.

I glance at Jimmy, still comatose. "Visiting a friend. And you?"

"I ..." She swallows and glances at the hall as if debating escape. "I felt funny, just a strange feeling, so I followed it to see where it lead."

"Funny? How so?"

"Just this ..." Unconsciously or not, Sarah rests both hands over her stomach. "... this emptiness you get when you're hungry, only it wasn't for food, and then it moved into my heart. It became a tug, so I followed it to see what it was. It lead me here."

"From where?"

Sarah won't look me in the face. "110th Street."

"Fascinating," I reply, and I truly am fascinated. "Sarah, sit. You make one skittish standing in the door like that."

She tucks her hair behind an ear and debates my request for a second before finally entering the room. There's an empty chair near mine, so she takes it and quickly inspects our surroundings. There's not much to look at. Jimmy doesn't have much left in this world. "Who's your friend?"

"This? This is James Ellingson, Jr., but everyone always called him Jimmy. He's a good lad. Was." I rest my cheek in one gloved palm, considering. "I suppose it's been a long time by human standards, but by mine, I was just talking with him yesterday."

Sarah can't pull her eyes from the wasted face. She looks haunted. "What happened to him?"

"Schizophrenia. Madness ran in his family, and the authorities coped with it the only way they knew."

"Lobotomy?"

"Yes."

"That's terrible," Sarah says softly. There's pain behind her eyes. I'm intrigued at her ability to feel so much on behalf of others.

I shrug. "It's what they knew. I must say, humans evolve at a tremendously fast rate. Things that appeared just or wise only fifty years ago are now looked upon as evil or archaic nowadays."

"My first year in grad school, we studied the history of psychotic disorders and psychiatric hospitals," Sarah murmurs, worrying her hands. "The things doctors did to patients back then would be grounds for criminal investigations today."

Exactly what I'd been pondering shortly before her arrival. There's surprise in Sarah's eyes when she looks at me again. I must be wearing a strange expression. I can't articulate what passes between us in that moment, but it tastes like mutual understanding.

"So," Sarah continues, "they lobotomized him."

"Yes. They thought to only cut a few nerves, but it didn't go well." Jimmy's head is slipping a bit, so I carefully adjust his pillow. "He was twenty-seven. Before he'd fallen ill, he was a terrific chemist - what you would call a pharmacist. He was engaged to a charming girl named Nancy, but of course the lobotomy put a stop to that."

"How did you two, uh, meet?"

I smile at Sarah wanly. "His brother, Richard, was a lover of mine."

"Oh." The longest _Oh_ I've ever heard, pregnant with thought. "I'm sorry, if this is personal-"

"It is," I assure her, "but there's nothing shameful about it." Sarah inspects me curiously again. "Have you never had a lover, Sarah?" My voice comes out so softly that it could be mistaken for seductive.

Fortunately, all my question succeeds at doing is making Sarah chuckle self-consciously. "I've had relationships. It's just ... weird hearing you talk about it so casually."

"Having a lover?"

"People don't talk like that."

"How do they talk?"

"They say they're dating someone, or dating around. Saying you have a lover is admitting to people that you're ... you're ..."

"Having sex," I say frankly.

Sarah laughs again. "Yeah."

"There's nothing shameful about taking a lover, Precious."

"I guess," she says, placating me. Her body language says otherwise. "So what happened after the lobotomy?"

"The family was never the same after that. Jimmy was their darling prince. Richard was devastated." I drift off for a moment, remembering. "... he and I parted ways soon after, but we did so on good terms. The whole family is gone now. Jimmy has no one left, so I visit him."

"You and Jimmy must have been close."

"Hardly. He barely tolerated me. I think he alone sensed something between his brother and me. The parents were oblivious. Jimmy threatened to brain me once or twice."

"Would he have been able to?"

My grin is just a touch malicious. "He could have tried. It wouldn't have ended well for him. In any case, he never did. But Richard was wild about him. It's a cruel thing to love a person so dearly when they despise what you are, but Richard loved Jimmy anyway. Not everyone went to college back then, but Richard did because Jimmy had, and anything his elder brother did, Richard had to do. He studied music. He was a wonderful violinist. Paganini would have wept to hear him play."

I sigh and stare at Jimmy's slack face. "Of course, the parents were horrified their boy had become a musician. The violin on weekends was one thing. Playing at neighbourhood parties? Delightful, impressive. But to be a professional musician, a starving artist, a ragamuffin? Unacceptable. They threatened to throw him out."

"... Did they?"

"Richard was unwelcome in the home for a year, but that didn't stop his studies. He'd received a scholarship, and a fond professor got him additional support from the university. After a while, his parents relented. They missed their boy too much, as did Jimmy, who by then was having his fits. Within another six months, he was institutionalized for the first of many times."

I've been staring at Jimmy's wasted face so long that when I look back at Sarah, I'm surprised to see my expression mirrored in her face. "You visit someone who hated you?" she asks, puzzled.

"He meant the world to Richard, and he's gone now." Sarah's expression softens, and a small part of me feels relieved that she understands. Why should a king crave acceptance from anyone, let alone a former enemy? I won't say. It's humiliating. But the kindness in Sarah's face makes me, for a wild moment, want to kiss her feet. "Such is life. How is the darling Muriel faring?"

Sarah darkens like a storm cloud. "Why did you set me up with that awful woman?"

"You wished for it, Precious."

"Bullshit. I didn't wish for _**this**_. The woman's an asshole."

I tut. "Such language. You'd make a nun's ears bleed."

"Goblin King, I wished for wisdom! All Muriel does is criticize me!"

Sarah is sitting closer to me than she's realized. She jumps a little when I touch her hand. "Jareth," I insist. She's still riding high on anger, and she blinks at me in confusion. "Call me Jareth and I will answer whatever questions you have." She thinks it's a joke, I can tell. "I promise, Sarah."

She looks at me askance. "Since when do **_you_ **make promises?"

"Since now."

She doesn't trust me, I can tell. "Alright ... Jareth." I remove my hand from hers and recline back in my chair. Sarah relaxes considerably after that. "Why did you set me up with Muriel? And don't say it's because I wished for it. You know I wouldn't have chosen someone that nasty for a teacher."

"No, you wouldn't have, but it's what you needed."

My presumption obviously nettles her. "How do you figure?"

I lace my hands over my stomach, considering. "Muriel is brilliant at what she does. Oh, I know you don't see it, not yet, but she is. She's also the only person I'd entrust with the keys to my kingdom. Her loyalty is beyond question. You'll come to appreciate her methods in the end, of that I'm certain."

"She's rude."

"Oh, do you think so? She's actually quite a sensitive spirit."

Sarah laughs bitterly. "Do you know what Muriel said to me today? She said I was a brainless idiot and it was a good thing I dropped out of grad school, because it would have been criminal to let me take care of patients. She also said it's too bad my dad didn't have a family business he could push me into, because it's clear I sure as heck wouldn't be able to get a job anywhere else."

"Not true. **_She_ **hired you."

"Because you made her hire me!"

"That part is true," I admit.

Sarah throws up her hands. "Goblin-! Agh, **_Jareth!_ ** I think you're being obtuse on purpose!"

"Sarah, I shall make a deal with you," I say with all sincerity, but Sarah only grimaces in response. "I promise that you will get the answers you seek on this in time, but first you must make an effort with Muriel. She's a wonderful magician and will teach you what you need. If you give it your best effort and you still hate it, then leave."

She stares at me. "Really?"

"Of course. You're your own keeper."_ Because you wouldn't let me be yours. Haven't we been over this a million times before?_ Bitterness and grief bubbling on my tongue. Swallow it down and smile. Smiles can be interpreted so many ways.

"So I could leave now if I wanted?"

I stare at Sarah for a long time. "... Will you?"

She sighs. "No. I don't want to die like everyone else, clueless about the true nature of things. And you gave me a rare opportunity."

"Do you feel indebted to me?" Indebtedness is certainly a card I can play.

"I don't know," she mutters. "You did fulfill your end of a bargain. I can't just walk away."

"Yes. Tell me more about how you found me today." _Please?_ I cock my head at her in a way I know will both annoy her as well as tug on the heartstrings.

My ploy works. Sarah looks disgruntled. "I don't know. I just followed this feeling I had, and it brought me here."

"To me," I insist.

"To this room," Sarah retorts. "You just happened to be here."

I grin toothily. "There are no 'just so happens', Sarah." She looks away from me. I delicately reach under her chin and gently, gently turn her face back to mine. She looks annoyed but, dammit, still not a trace of fear. "All humans have magick, Precious. Most dismiss it as the stuff of fairy tales, but all have the potential to channel it. One of the most basic forms it takes is connecting with someone else. It's a skill that proves itself useful, when a family member is missing and needs to be found."

"But you weren't lost," she says.

"Don't be so sure. My visits here always depress me. Times like these, it's nice to have company."

Sarah gently disengages from me, but she holds my hand in hers as if uncertain what to do with it. "How can I use magick if I don't know what I'm doing?"

"Instinct. How does a flock of geese know to fly south for the winter?" I like the way Sarah holds my hand, as if I'm a precious thing. "And I think there's something unique about our own personal connection, so I'm not surprised you sensed me nearby."

"Our dreams," Sarah murmurs. "They're not just dreams, are they?"

"I think not. You named me and my kingdom equal to you and yours." I deftly twist my hand, delicately taking Sarah's in mine, and kiss the back of it with a smile. Sarah doesn't resist, but she still looks solemn. "I will permit you another question. You asked terrible questions the other week at brunch."

"Did I?" she asks faintly.

"You asked me nothing about my history even as I asked all sorts of questions about yours." I rub the back of her palm with my thumb, grinning. "Quid pro quo, yes or no?"

She cocks her head, debating. "Alright. So, what are you?"

"Ha! You've asked that before."

"I have, but I didn't get a real answer. You said humans have called your kind faeries, djinn, gods. So what **_are_ **you? You, specifically."

I've interlaced my fingers with Sarah's and begun to inspect her fingernails. The ends are chewed. She's a biter. "I? I'm a god, born of a distant star when this galaxy was in its infancy. I remember the explosion that preceded its creation. Now I serve as Goblin King, where I take unwanted children and guard human dreams."

"I thought you _**offered** _people their dreams."

"One and the same. When you know a person's dreams, you can better tempt them. It proves useful for dealing with people who wish away children. At my core, though, I have always been a fertility god."

Sarah laughs. "Excuse me?"

She tries to pull back her hand, as if I've said something distasteful, but I refuse to let go. "It's true," I tell her. I'm sure my self-pleasure is evident in my face.

"You make it sound like an excuse."

"For what?"

"For-" Sarah laughs again. "-for being ... you know."

"I don't know. Tell me."

"You act like you'll screw anything that moves."

I feel vaguely slighted by this statement, and it's difficult to offend me. "Excuse me. I have standards." Sarah finally retrieves her hand, and I use mine to cradle my chin as I inspect her. "Does it offend you that I enjoy sex? It's part of my job."

"I think a lot of guys would use that excuse," Sarah counters.

"Well, I can't speak for them," I reply, "but for me it literally **_is_ **my job. Every god has a function. Mine is to bring forth new life. Even now, as Goblin King, I serve to protect children ... and when there were no children, or a people had suffered terrible losses in war or the food supply, I would be called upon to inspire the crops or the people to bear fruit."

"'Inspire'. What does that mean? Sleeping with the women?"

"Often." I nearly smile at the memories, but I stop myself just in time.

"That's crude."

"Why?" I'm genuinely curious.

"Because it's ... you can't just go around sleeping with people."

"Why?"

"Because you can't."

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody. Society. You just don't do that."

"Modern society has hidden away something very natural. Instead of revering sex as the force it is, you've degraded it, shamed it, made it inaccessible, and as a result of that you have widespread depression and perversions like rape." I count each of these offenses on my fingers as I speak, and my voice has taken on a lilt as if singing a song. Sarah aggravates me with her judgments, so my long-suffering temper has started to fray. Tuesdays are never good days to begin with for me.

"So people would call upon you to sleep with them so they could have kids," Sarah says, amused.

"Yes," I reply, and this time I do smile, with a touch of mockery. "You must understand that things have changed a great deal. The last two centuries have seen more changes than the last ten thousand years. Until recently, the population on this planet never exceeded a million people. Fertility was of the utmost concern. New children, new sources of food, new advances in art and music, ... all these things need a helping hand, so to speak. A fertility god can help most wondrously with that."

"I have a hard time following this."

"When done with disregard for another, yes, sex is destructive or traumatic - much like what your mother did when she cheated on your father and abandoned your family." Sarah bristles. "What your mother did was despicable. But the problem was her lack of empathy and loyalty, not the sex."

Sarah is quiet for a long time. Jimmy's breathing machines continue to rattle and wheeze and beep. My Champion and I sit side by side, saying nothing. Truth be told, I enjoy sitting quietly in her presence, even if she's not afraid of me. The lack of fear is both an annoyance and a novelty. After several minutes lost in thought, Sarah finally says, "What would people do, when they called upon you?"

"How's that?"

"You know. Say a people wanted to call upon your power. What happened?"

"They had magicians to call upon me."

"Like placing a long-distance phone call."

I can't help my grin. "People lived closer to nature back then, so it wasn't quite so long-distance. But yes."

"And then what?"

"It depended upon the people, and the situation. I was quite popular in ancient Ireland."

"Oh!" Sarah says in recognition. "The Horned God!"

I'm delighted. "Ah, so you've heard of me?"

Sarah's entire demeanour has come alive. Her body turns toward me as she begins to speak animatedly with her hands. "Of course. I loved Jung. He believed the Horned God was a guardian between worlds and a source of masculine power - the healthy kind. Everybody carries archetypal aspects within themselves, you know? And when a person, male or female, didn't integrate the Horned God in a healthy way, you'd have deviant behaviour like sexual violence."

I hum contentedly to myself. "What you once called myths you've now integrated into your scientific study of the human mind. How I love your species."

"So what happened in ancient Ireland, then, when people called upon you?" Sarah no longer sounds so cynical. Sarah the Scientist.

I'm thoughtful. How to explain this to someone so out of touch with her own history? "Ah ... a long time ago, thousands of years before Saint Patrick brought his dead god on a cross, the Irish religion concerned itself first and foremost with fertility. The Druids built enormous stone temples aligned with the movement of the sun. And of course, they held fertility rites for crops and children."

I stretch my legs and sigh. "There is a rite that has not been practiced in many centuries. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I saw one performed. The people would build up a great fire, and there would be feasting and merry-making. All the young women would adorn each other's hair and make themselves beautiful, and they would compete for the title of Goddess. Each woman would dance, and the woman who danced the most passionately and who won the crowd's heart would be declared the winner."

"And then what?"

"And then she would claim her prize: a god for a goddess." _Ah, me, the memories._ "A respected elder woman would paint the winner's face, cover her with a cloak of feathers and send her into a cave, deep beneath the earth. There she would find a chamber resembling a tomb, as they buried people back then, only this chamber was lit with candles and instead of a corpse in a burial shroud, she'd find a dead god lying in repose waiting to be resurrected. Often the god was played by a man who'd won his own competition among the other men, and he'd be dressed as a fierce warrior. Some people dressed their gods as a sun deity. Every tribe had its own customs.

"And sometimes," I say, "if the people had a magician or two, the god was a real one. A deity called down and made flesh, instead of a local man playing a role. Most people had sacred death masks made for this rite, a frightening-looking thing with a raging, red mouth and great horns protruding from the head, carved of wood and framed in animal fur or feathers. It was very impressive. So I'd lay there until the winner entered the tomb and, ah, brought me back to life. I'm sure you can deduce how she accomplished this."

From the way Sarah's blushed and laughed, she has. "And then?"

"Meanwhile, in the world above, the remaining women would take their pick of the men, and everyone would go off into the woods and have their own celebration. It was wonderful. No one would get any work done for days."

"Did this help people have kids?"

I mull that over. "They certainly thought so. Keep in mind, ritualized forms of sex meant society actively encouraged love-making, which meant there was more of it. There was no shame. If anything, people saw it as a duty so sacred that even their gods wanted to help them. It meant a new generation, and the lack of sexual frustration cut down on conflicts and war."

Sometime during my story, Sarah has turned completely to inspect me, as if she's never seen me before. "It sounds beautiful."

"It was," I reply with a tinge of wistfulness.

"You must have had a lot of children running around."

I chuckle ruefully. "I did. The last time I was called to Ireland for such a rite was at least fifteen hundred years ago, yet until the 1600's, there remained whole villages in County Meath where it was said the people had the queerest mismatched eyes. The English wiped most of them out, and the Famine took the rest. My Irish bloodlines are all gone now."

"I'm sorry," Sarah says quietly.

I regard her curiously. So strange to hear someone apologize so much for things over which they have no control. I never apologize for anything, even when I'm the cause. "What for?"

"It's sad. Those were your kids, or your grand-kids many times over."

"It's tragic," I agree, "but I had no emotional connection to them, I'm afraid. It takes more than seed to make a father. I never raised any of the children I sired. I had a particular job to do, and I did it." _With gusto,_ says the look on Sarah's face. I won't deny that.

"You miss it," she says. It's not a question.

Mine is a bitter laugh. "The sacredness humans held for every aspect of their lives? Oh, yes."

At that moment, a nurse enters the room to say in an annoyed tone that visiting hours are over and that it's past time we left, so we do. Jimmy doesn't protest. He never does.

* * *

It's still light outside with the onset of spring. Sarah looks momentarily perplexed when I offer her my elbow, and I remember that the custom is outdated, but she takes my arm before I can retract it. It's very comfortable, having her touch me like this. As we reach her car, she disengages to unlock the doors, then looks me over. "Need a lift?"

"That would be lovely, thank you." I don't ride often in cars, but every opportunity to do so is a treat. Such curious contraptions, automobiles.

We pull onto the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. The passenger-side window is down and I'm riding along with my head half out of it, the wind in my hair and my eyes hungrily gobbling up the sight of Manhattan's skyline.

"Where do you need to be dropped off, Your Majesty?" Sarah asks.

"Jareth." I shut my eyes against the harsh glare of the electric lights, retreat into my imagination, where there's always candlelight and stars. The human world is a sweet one, but sometimes it's discombobulating. The wind feels wonderful against my skin, as if I'm flying.

"What?" Sarah is confused.

"Call me Jareth, Sarah." Her name tastes wonderful in my mouth, like an invocation and a promise.

"Oh. Yes. Well, where can I drop you off ... Jareth?" My name sounds awkward when she speaks, a flat tune on a faulty instrument. In time, Precious. In time.

"Anywhere. It doesn't matter."

* * *

Parking is atrocious in Brooklyn, so Sarah has to park several blocks from Muriel's house. I'm about to take my leave of her for the night, but I notice a possessed woman wandering the opposite side of the boulevard, and a vampire watches us from a neighbouring stoop. It's a good vampire, a member of a clan I'm friendly with, but still. Sarah hasn't a clue. So instead of leaving, I link arms with her again and escort her down the street. She looks surprised at me but doesn't protest. I consider that a victory.

"So, what does a fertility god do in the modern world?" Sarah asks.

I blink at her. "How do you mean?"

"People aren't staging ritualized orgies anymore. I mean, maybe they are, but they're not calling down gods for them, right?"

"In some places, they still do, and it's desperately needed. Mortals suffer greatly in this area."

"Impotence," Sarah says in agreement.

"Yes. And other areas."

"Like?"

"Fear of rejection. Fear of commitment. Fear of opening oneself up to a partner. Homophobia. Self-loathing. Performance anxiety. Jealousy. As you will."

"Sex can help with this?"

"It's always fascinated me that modern human societies tend to focus on the destructive aspects of sex without giving equal airtime to the healing aspects," I muse aloud. "In answer to your question, yes."

"So, like, how? Obviously the answer isn't Viagra. Drugs don't help the emotional stuff."

I feel a smile uncurl itself across my face and stretch like a cat. "Curious, are we?"

"Human psychology was my field of specialty," Sarah says defensively. "What you're saying is interesting."

I consider that for a moment. "It varies by the person. I'm sure you're aware, for example, of the way women's sexuality has been repressed, even today. Repressed, controlled, punished. You talk with your girlfriends, yes? Have any of them ever confided in you that they've never had an orgasm with a partner?"

Sarah flinches. Actually flinches. How curious.

"Sarah?"

"What?"

"Sarah, have **_you_ **ever-?"

"That's none of your business."

"You brought it up."

"I'm sorry I did."

"Well, have you?"

Sarah looks at me, annoyed, and pulls away, continuing on down the street at my side but with her hands stuffed in her pockets. Her body language is answer enough, but after a beat Sarah says, "No. Never with a partner. And you can wipe that grin off your face."

"I'm not grinning."

"You just got this crazy gleam in your eye as if you'd thought, **_CHALLENGE ACCEPTED_**, in big neon lights. The answer is no."

In fairness, I do have a very expressive face that doesn't do a good job of hiding my thoughts, so Sarah's probably got me there. "I didn't ask anything."

"You're thinking it."

"I've already proven time and again that I never, ever turn down a request for help from you, if you were to ask me for it. **_If_ **you were to ask, and only then. You set that boundary quite well when you so happily defeated me." Sarah's gait loosens up a bit. At any rate, she's walking less stiffly. "Your problem is you don't trust people."

Sarah sizes me up. "I don't trust _**you**_. I feel like we're peas in a pod and co-collaborators in a big game I'm just beginning to understand, and you're so openly manipulative sometimes that it's easy for me to get a bead on what you're doing. I trust that you're trying to do what you feel is best for me, but I also think you're selfish and would 'help' me as long as you'd get something out of it."

I laugh. It's the sort of laugh a man makes when an arrow has struck true, but it would be a tremendous loss of face to admit it. I can't deny anything Sarah's said, and I won't even try. "Well played."

"Can I ask you something? Quid pro quo."

"Alright." I can always lie if I need to.

"If you had the opportunity to take me back Underground right now, whether I wanted to go or not, would you do it?"

As if operating on the same nervous system, we stop and stare at each other. A couple bumps into us from behind and maneuvers around us grumbling. It's a beautiful night out. The moon hangs heavy in the sky like a nine-month belly, and the stars wink cheekily from their black velvet berths. Their light can't hold a candle to the brilliance of Sarah's eyes.

"In a heartbeat," I reply, very honestly. "But I would never hurt you," I add, just as honestly.

Sarah sighs as she turns away, sighs as she says, "That's not good enough." We've reached the black iron gate guarding the front of Muriel's house. A neighbour's dog barks. One of Muriel's cats growls from its hiding place in the bushes. Sarah pushes on the gate and walks into the garden. I remain on the sidewalk, rubbing the black iron thoughtfully with my gloved hands.

As she mounts the front steps, I call out, "Sarah." She turns, curiosity radiating off her in waves. I can feel her eyes burning in the darkness. "As long as you're queen-elect of the Labyrinth, you will have no peace until you return, just as I will have no peace until we have you. I've tried to be generous, but if you won't come of your own accord, I swear on all the worlds I will find a way to drag you home myself."

Sarah sniffs. "You're going to be waiting a long time, Your Majesty." Then she goes inside, locking the door firmly behind her, shutting me out, and I'm left alone and angry in the dark with my thoughts.

* * *

Around this time I attend a party at the home of a neighbour, a fae lord named Tiberius.

If I had the luxury of a friend, Tiberius would be one of mine. He's young by my standards, perhaps two-thousand years old. Old enough to remember the ancient Irish fertility rites, and to have participated in a fair number of them. The only thing that finally chased him out of Ireland was the English, and he now resides entirely Underground. The fae have a poor relationship with most human tribes. Too much bad blood and betrayal there, most of it from the humans. The fae take loyalty oaths too seriously to break them.

Strictly speaking, they are not gods, though many human cultures have mistaken them for such. The fae are a mortal race with a finite lifespan and their own customs, just like humans, and they value artistry above most everything else. Their claim to fame in the old days was kidnapping beautiful youths, lovely lasses, skilled artisans, and brave warriors. So the fae share some characteristics with gods such as myself: neither race has ever been known for playing fair.

There's a human author who's famous for his relationship with the fae, an Englishman named J.R.R. Tolkien, only he called them elves. Tolkien was one of the few to bother learning fae languages and to actually write them down in his books. Of course, humans fancy he made them all up. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Tiberius' regnal name is Cirden, though his birth name is Cathasach. Like all fae, he also holds a secret name known only to himself. When he reached maturity, he did as all fae of noble stock did: went away to study the art of war with the best warriors, and at that time, that meant studying with the Romans. He liked this so much that he kept the name they bestowed upon him. For all formal matters of state, he's known as Lord Cirden of the Wild Wood, but the rest of the time, he's merely Tiberius.

He's a good man, Tiberius. He has a head for strategy and a heart for battle. I don't trust him as much as I trust Muriel, but I trust him more than most other people, and that says something.

You might think Tiberius a lout, the fae equivalent of a drunken footballer. In fact, Tiberius prides himself on his manners and sense of culture. His favourite place to visit whenever he ventures Above is Shanghai, renowned for its fashion and wealth. In the last century, when China was still under the thumb of England, you would have found Tiberius on the wide boulevards of Paris, where during the day he'd shop and, at night, play piano with the city's highest-paid courtesans.

That being said, Tiberius often is drunk. It's a curious fact that his birth name, Cathasach, means "the vigilant one" in ancient Irish. Clearly, the Fates have a sense of humour.

When I appear in Tiberius' courtyard astride my horse (a great black charger named Thunder), liveried footmen rush to greet me. Tiberius' servants are the best. He's trained them well. I sweep down from my horse, and a butler leads me through the massive doors and into the main hall.

Tiberius also throws the best galas. At the moment, every important person on Earth and under it is here: some of them fae, some of them gods, even a few humans. I spot a New York Times bestselling author, a young man who's been lauded as "the next Tolkien", and of course the irony is that, like Tolkien, he's chummy with the very same fae he writes about. (Apparently, the fae are flattered by this.)

When I enter the hall, the butler calls, "His Majesty the Goblin King, Lord of the Southern Marshes, Lesser Emperor of the Lower Lands, Guardian to the Nightmare Realms, and High Sovereign of the Labyrinth."

The temperature in the hall drops several degrees as everyone frantically bows or curtsies. For my part, I give a little nod but look bored, if regal. I'm quite a showstopper, if I do say so myself. You can thank Cornelius for handling my wardrobe. I wear a pinstriped suit, the kind you'd find at Fashion Week in New York. You can't expect gods and fae to ignore modern fashion trends, after all. I also sport grey silk gloves and glasses with round, dark blue lenses, and a silver watch hangs from my waistcoat on a filigreed chain.

I look outrageous, but as a rule, I dislike doing things by halves. Just ask Sarah.

"Your Majesty!" Tiberius booms, hurrying forward. He also wears the sort of stylish clothes you'd find fashioned by Gucci, not goblins, and his bow is far lower than mine, acknowledging my authority. "Please, come in, come in!"

The stiffness in the hall disintegrates, and everyone returns to their chatter, though they watch me from the corner of their eyes the way a flock of blue jays watches a cat.

Tiberius links arms with me and sweeps me into the hall. "I am **_so_ **glad to see you, Jareth," he whispers conspiratorially in my ear. "I want to hear all the news. Your kingdom regrown in the blink of an eye! I need to know how you did that!"

"No secret to it, just behead a demon and spend a week recuperating in bed," I retort.

"It wasn't a big rift, was it?" he asks hungrily.

"It was big enough," I concede.

Tiberius laughs uproariously at this. "You're insane. You always were the toughest bastard I ever knew. That's why the Saracens loved you. Fancy a beer?"

I accept the drink from him, as if I had a choice. "Beer, at a formal mixer? Always classy, Tiberius."

He winks. "I've learned a lot from the humans. Come, see my new additions."

Tiberius' "additions" include a human girlfriend from Buenos Aires and a baby grand piano. Tiberius always had a soft spot for women and music. The girlfriend is darling - an accomplished model and equestrienne named Filomena who was recently on the cover of _Essence_. Tiberius is obviously smitten with her and failing utterly at hiding it. I should make a note to tease him mercilessly about it later. He hates looking anything but unshakable.

"When's the wedding?" I mouth to him.

"Next year," he answers, sounding a little drunker than I thought he was. "I've already asked and she's already said yes. But tell me about this rift. How did a pretty boy like you take on a rift and live to tell the tale? Wait, don't tell me, you're immortal. I know, I know. Well, we can't all be gods."

We leave the noise of the main hall for the added privacy of a grotto. The first one I find is occupied by a man and a woman who are going to need a private room very shortly. Out of a manly sense of camaraderie, I find myself steering my drunken lord away from them and down the hall, where I deposit him in an empty room occupied by a single desk and a bookshelf. It looks like the butler's office.

"Oh, good," Tiberius says, obviously not recognizing this place. "Is this the wine cellar?"

"Hardly." I shut the door and prop Tiberius on a sofa. "Try not to vomit on the couch. It looks expensive."

"Are you insinuating I don't know how to hold my drink?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm telling you outright."

"Prig," he accuses me gleefully. "So tell me how you rebuilt the Underground."

I deposit myself in the chair behind the desk and loll one leg over an armchair. "Nothing to tell, truly. I closed the rift without destroying myself or blowing up the Underground, and here I am today, getting drunk with you."

"You're not trying hard enough. Have more beer." He pulls out of thin air two bottles of dark Belgian ale, caps off and gullets filled with an orange wedge. One of the bottles floats into my hand, and Tiberius raises his bottle in a toast. "May we never regret this."

I toast him back. "God save the king."

"Isn't that _**my** _line?"

"Drink your beer."

One beer becomes two, and two becomes three, and after that we stop counting. At least, I stop counting. Tiberius has a head start on me. I recall saying, sometime after Beer #3, "Tell me how you convinced a lovely woman like Filomena to marry your ugly mug." A royal title affords me a louder mouth when I'm drinking.

"Alas, I cannot say, Your Majesty. 'Tis a shameful, hedonistic tale."

"With an introduction like that, I insist you tell your tale, sirrah."

"Haha! Well. I was backstage at a fashion show in Buenos Aires. I heard a woman crying in the bathroom and went to investigate. Of course, I couldn't go in, because it was the Ladies'. I called and convinced her to come out, and out comes this ... this radiant goddess. She was crying because she'd broken the heel on her shoe and tripped onstage. It was humiliating, all the photographers had gotten a picture of it and it was sure to appear in the papers the next day. Anyway, I barely heard all this, because I was staring at the lovely vision before me." Tiberius plays with his beer bottle and gazes into the distance. Even he is aware that he's reached his limit. "I insisted on taking her to dinner to make up for the shoe, and she agreed."

"You didn't have to trick her? Was she inebriated?"

"Some of us," Tiberius says loftily, "can get by on our charm, I'll have you know."

"Have I met any of these people?"

"I can assure Your Majesty that you won't find any in the mirror."

"Now that's just low."

Tiberius snickers, pleased with himself, but quickly adopts a serious expression. It looks out of place on his face. "And pray, tell me how fares the Labyrinth."

I focus very intently on the rim of my glass. "Very well."

"You lie," Tiberius hisses with malicious glee. "What is amiss? You need a man, that's what. Or a woman. Someone who will laugh at your stupid jokes, besides your goblins. Someone with whom you can while away the hours."

I put down my drink completely and fold my hands in my lap. "You seem to be very aware of what my kingdom and I need."

Tiberius waves a hand and sloppily shakes his head. One would think he's dismissing me, but I recognize embarrassment and backpedaling when I see it. "I fear for Your Majesty's well-being. You've always been so isolated. Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

This is true.

"Gwyneth has been asking for you," he adds, as if carelessly.

I grimace. "No."

"But she's a delightful-"

"**_No_**, Cathasach."

"Oh, dear, you're unleashing my childhood name. It appears I've seriously breached decorum." Tiberius yawns and sways slightly as he bounces up from his seat. He runs a finger along the books on the shelves, bored and tired: never a good combination for him. "She would be a pleasant companion for you, though," he murmurs softly, like a lover in my ear. "You deserve some pleasantness. I say this as a dear friend who cares for you very much, Jareth. You can't hide forever at the heart of your Labyrinth."

"I'm hardly hiding, Tiberius, and in any case, the heart of my Labyrinth lies elsewhere."

He turns to me with a raised brow. "Was that a riddle? Am I to guess?"

My face, carefully shuttered. "No."

Tiberius looks smug as he interlaces his arm with mine and drags me close. "You always were an enigma. It's part of your charm. Come, escort me back to the hall. The floor is misbehaving a bit."

We return to the party, where the guests continue to avoid me, the Bogeyman. Little matter; my attention's scattered, as if I exist in multiple worlds. The musicians play on, never stopping even once. Dancers, dancers everywhere, covered in lace and velvet. Hundreds of candles burning in their sconces, wax dripping onto the brick, mirrors and silver and glitter. Time stops, or perhaps it leaps forward. I cannot say.

I take my leave just before the dawn - that strange, confusing time when the shadows have not yet fully receded and the land still belongs to the stuff of nightmares. Many other guests have already left, or dance drunkenly in the hall or the garden or, in at least two instances, the fountain. As the servants fetch my horse, Tiberius accompanies me to the door, his fiancée on one arm as he makes exaggerated gestures with the other.

Filomena glows in the pale yellow light outside, silently laughing at Tiberius' jokes. Tiberius was right: she is exquisite.

My throat aches. I'm very tired.

Tiberius is speaking. "It's been a pleasure and a privilege, Your Majesty. I hope you'll attend the wedding."

"Yes, please," Filomena says. "Tibby speaks the world of you."

"Tibby?" Even I can hear the smirk in my voice.

Tiberius flushes. "Yes, yes. We shall send you an invitation shortly. And I'll ensure you're seated next to Gwyneth." He winks, not a little cruelly.

* * *

I would not reflect much upon this period if it were not for a terrible thing.

Shortly after Sarah's latest rejection, and Tiberius' party, a fissure forms in the rocks to the west of my castle. Didymus spots it one day during a reconnaissance mission. I set out for it immediately and discover it's not far from the first rift we discovered weeks earlier, the one that nearly destroyed me.

I spy on the rift from a safe distance, assessing it, weighing it in my mind, until I decide that there's no danger here. The rift runs a great length, churning up the air between one clump of rocks and the edges of the forest, but it cuts a shallow swath in time and space. It hasn't yet opened a door to other dimensions, which is a relief.

"Does Your Majesty think this foul thing will go deeper?" Didymus whispers from his hiding place next to me. He sounds uncharacteristically solemn.

"I don't know," I reply, frustrated and curious, but I'm loathe to get closer. It would be too much like taunting a bear. "I'll keep an eye on it, though Heaven knows what I shall do if it worsens." Once a rift latches onto a dimension, it's very difficult to get rid of, like destroying a parasite. I'm not looking forward to another bout with a resident demon.

* * *

A week later, Didymus bounds into my throne room again, muttering frantically about the rift. He gesticulates wildly, which hints at impending chaos and doom.

It's a struggle not to roll my eyes. "We've already discussed this rift, Sir knight."

"Your Majesty, I don't mean to speak of **_that_ **rift!" Didymus exclaims. "That is to say, Sire, there is a **_second_ **one!"

My goblins squeal in terror as I leap from my throne with a roar.

Unfortunately, Didymus speaks true, and this rift has actually opened. When I spy on it from the trees, sheathed in my owl form, I can see the telltale sparks of other worlds - nasty ones, from the look of things.

* * *

The goblins discover a third rift shortly after this. They run yelling into my throne room, disrupting the other goblins, and the chickens, and the biting faeries. I sit rigid on my throne, pale and frozen and thoughtful as my denizens run riot, like hideous little children.

They only shut up once something else in the room explodes and, in the sudden silence, a small goblin asks, "What's Your Majesty gonna do now?" She's a tiny creature with a striped sock for a hat, one of Sarah's goblins. She's stubbornly taken to calling herself Lucky, though why she should choose such a moniker is beyond even my keen powers of deduction, as I certainly haven't had much luck of late.

"Sire, are these rifts more damage from ... the last time?" Didymus queries.

I run a pair of crystals over my hands. Brooding. Silent.

He means the last time Sarah defeated me, the last time Sarah destroyed the Labyrinth and ripped open holes between the worlds.

I let the crystals fall. They become dust before they ever hit the ground. "No," I sigh, "these are not from Sarah. They've never been here before. They're entirely new rifts." I curl my hands into fists.

The goblins titter anxiously. Didymus is stunned. "But what does it **_mean_**?"

My answer is a yell of laughter and rage. The goblins cower, and even brave Didymus flinches. "It means, Sir knight, that my Labyrinth has never recovered and likely never will! It's falling apart, and my power with it. And more rifts will come until they finally succeed at tearing me apart. **_That_ **is what it means."

And I laugh until I cover my face with my hands. Perhaps I would cry, if I held with that nonsense, but of course I don't.

* * *

To be continued


End file.
